


A Vicious Motivator

by darnedchild



Series: A Vicious Motivator [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, I swear there are funny parts, Sherlolly - Freeform, also smut, tw: annoying jerkwad stalker, tw: reference to domestic abuse, tw: tiny mention of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 114,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/pseuds/darnedchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly was happy with her life.  She's got a job she loves, a nice flat, her cat, and she's even begun dating again (now that she's over her infatuation with Sherlock, mostly).  Then Sherlock dragged her out for a few hours of dress up and undercover work, and everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.  </p>
<p>She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to lilsherlockian1975 for being my beta for this story. I couldn't have finished it without her support.  
> And thanks to my Captain for cheerfully taking more than his fair share of bath and bedtime duties with the Demon Spawn so that I could spend a bit more time writing every day.

_Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator._

\- Sherlock Holmes (Series 1, episode 1 - A Study in Pink)

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly Hooper deliberately ignored the brief vibration and chime that issued from her purse.

Her blind date, a nice man named Harry, who looked nothing like Sherlock Holmes (she'd checked before agreeing to meet him), didn't. He frowned in the direction of the noise that once again interrupted their conversation and asked, "Are you sure you don't want to check that?"

Molly's answering smile was a bit forced as she shook her head no. "Nope. It's not important."

"Are you sure? I only ask because this is the fourth or fifth time you've got a text since we sat down to dinner."

It was the seventh, actually. There'd been two while he'd been in the loo, but Molly didn't feel the need to tell him that.

"Aren't you curious about who's buzzing you?"

She knew exactly who it was. She'd checked the first few because they'd come from an unknown number. Luckily for her, the persistent jerk had done her the courtesy of signing them in his usual way. That's when she'd realized he must have borrowed someone's mobile again. 

**At Barts. Where are you? SH**

**How long until you get here? SH**

**Why aren't you answering? Ditch the idiot. Need your assistance. Now. SH**

She was so certain the rest were in a similar vein that she didn't bother looking at her phone after the first three. Molly was positive that if there had been a real emergency she would have received a call from one of Sherlock's usual minders. Since there was no voice mail from John, Greg, anyone at Barts, or Sherlock's brother, she felt safe in assuming the consulting detective's increasingly annoying texts were nothing more than a whim on his part.

"It's fine, really. Just an old friend. Terrible gossip. Dying to share some bit of news, I imagine. Probably forgot I said I'd be out tonight. You were telling me about your job?"

Sherlock really was a bit of a gossip. Always rattling off someone else's business to the room at large, as if he had no filter between his brain and his mouth.

"Right. Well, as I was saying earlier, I'm a systems analyst for-"

Molly somehow managed to fake her way through the appropriate first date small talk for another twenty minutes; however, a small part of her mind was wondering what Sherlock needed this time. She nodded and smiled as her date told what he probably thought was a very amusing anecdote about a client; but she couldn't help feeling guilty at her desire to be home watching telly in her jammies, with Toby curled up in a warm purring ball on her lap. Or the even more damning desire to be at the morgue watching Sherlock deducing something, anything.

Once again her phone made noise, only this time it wasn't the generic text message alert. In the time it took Molly to recognize the tune and scramble to dig her phone out of her purse, it managed to play "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts" just loud enough for her date and at least one of the surrounding tables to hear. 

Sherlock so rarely bothered to use his own mobile to contact her that she'd actually managed to forget she'd changed his text alert and ringtone to Right Said Fred's _I'm Too Sexy_ on a dare. Somehow Meena had talked her into it on a Girl's Night Out, after what was probably far too many pints. They'd both thought it was utterly hilarious at the time. Now? Not so much. 

Her smile was extremely forced. "Sorry. Can you give me just a moment?"

Harry sighed and signalled for the waiter to refill his glass of wine. 

She skipped down to the read the latest text.

**Got tired of waiting. At Baker Street. Come NOW. SH**

Molly quickly typed a reply. 

**Is there a body? There had better be a body. MH**

Seconds later the phone began to chirp again, but she managed to silence it after the first word or two. 

**Yes. SH**

**Is it dead? MH**

**Technically, no. But he might be by the time you get here at this rate. Now, Molly. SH**

There was something off, something she couldn't put her finger on. The absence of a phone call from Greg told her Sherlock's problem wasn't a police matter. At least not yet. That still left a wide range of trouble that he could have got himself into.

**Be there soon. Have to call a cab. MH**

**Already done. It's waiting outside. Have Mrs H let you in. SH**

Molly groaned and hesitated before shoving the phone back in her purse. 

It didn't surprise her that he knew where she was. She'd stopped trying to figure out how he knew the things he knew a few months after they'd met. Given enough time he never could resist showing off and explaining everything anyway, so there was no reason to ask.

She looked at her date and struggled to come up with an explanation that wouldn't sound morbid or insane. 

Harry waved his half empty wine glass in her direction. "Let me guess, you need to go."

"Well, yes. I'm so sorry. I was having a lovely time."

"No. No, it's fine. Meena warned me something like this might happen. Said you had an eccentric friend who called on you at all hours, needing your help for this or that."

She was about to deny it, but then she remembered Sherlock pounding on her door at four a.m. the week before. He'd insisted he needed to use her cook-top for an experiment as the pilot had gone out on his, and it was too early to bother Mrs Hudson. Not too early to travel across town and wake her up, she'd noted. At the time, she just stepped out of the way, told him he knew where the kitchen was, and went back to bed. He'd been gone when she woke up, but the smell of whatever he'd been up to had lingered. She'd had to leave the windows open all day.

"Yeah. Sorry. He does do that." She stood and gathered up her coat and bag. "Listen, Harold-"

"Harry."

Molly grimaced, Sherlock was definitely rubbing off on her. "Right. Harry. I knew that. So, any interest in doing this again?"

He drained the last of his wine and stood up as well. "Nope. Not really."

"I didn't think so. No hard feelings?"

"None. Walk you out?"

"That'd be great, thanks."

Harry tucked her into the waiting cab with a genial wave. Molly went ahead and sent a text to Meena to let her know the evening had been a bust. Meena had insisted that she'd need to hear all the gory details at work the next day, and Molly knew she was in for a grilling guaranteed to rival anything Greg could manage with a suspect.

As the cab crept down the London streets, she wondered if Sherlock's summons had to do with the Moriarty telecast. 

Things had been very strange leading up to it. Even stranger than one would have expected considering Sherlock had been shot not too long prior. Tense would be the word she would have used if anyone had bothered to ask her (which they hadn't). From Christmas until the telecast, she'd barely spoken to anyone associated with Sherlock. When she had, they had all acted as if they were threads drawn so taut they were threatening to snap. 

She'd only seen Sherlock himself once in that time frame, very briefly. Barely five minutes, really. He'd come to the lab to drop off a small box of various pieces of equipment he had pilfered over the years. She could see someone standing just outside the room, through the little window in the door. She'd thought that strange. She'd almost asked Sherlock why he didn't invite them in, but something had made her hold her tongue. He'd placed the box on the table closest to her and simply said, "Goodbye, Molly Hooper." Her breath had frozen in her lungs at his words. Her chest had literally ached, Molly remembered that quite clearly. She also remembered thinking that it was goodbye. 

A real goodbye. 

A final goodbye. 

Like the one he'd given her after the Fall, minutes before Mycroft had him whisked off to who-knew-where for two years.

But that couldn't have been right; because he'd shown up at the morgue two days later, as if nothing strange had happened at all. Well, nothing stranger than the image of a dead man being broadcast over every channel in London, that was.

As far as she was aware, there hadn't been another sign of Moriarty (or, much more likely, his impersonator) since; but the chances of anyone discussing that sort of thing with her where very small. The Really Important Cases (as she thought of them) tended to be Need To Know only, and Molly very rarely needed to know. Until there was a body to be examined, or a call for her help in the lab, she wasn't brought into the loop. 

Which made her wonder, once again, why he'd asked her to come to Baker Street.

Twenty minutes later she was climbing the staircase to Sherlock's rooms. As expected, she only had to stand on the stoop for a moment before Mrs Hudson answered her knock and told her to go on up.

The door to his flat was wide open, which wasn't terribly surprising. He knew she was coming, after all. 

It was a bit strange that he wasn't in the sitting room, though.

Molly dropped her purse onto John's chair and began to unbutton her coat. "All right, where's the body?"

He wasn't in the kitchen, either.

"Sherlock?"

"In here."

She draped her coat over the back of the chair, and followed the sound of his voice to the bathroom. That door was only slightly ajar rather than wide open.

"Don't just stand out there all night, come in," he snapped, impatient as always when someone wasn't rushing to do his bidding.

Molly eased the door open and found him sitting on the edge of the tub, clutching a blood stained kitchen towel full of ice over his right eye.

"What happened? Where's the body? What did you do, Sherlock?" She eased into the bathroom, which really wasn't big enough for two, and glanced into the tub to make sure there wasn't a corpse in it. She wouldn't put it past him to have one stored on ice in there. Stranger things had happened.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm the body."

There it was. The 'I'm smarter than you' voice he used when he thought someone was being particularly dense.

She was going to kill him. Going to kill him, and then there really would be a body in the flat. No one would blame her. Greg and Anderson might even be willing to help her cover everything up if Sherlock had been particularly Sherlockish recently. _Perhaps not Anderson, not anymore. Donovan would probably volunteer, though._

"I'll ask again, what happened?" Molly carefully pulled his hand and the makeshift ice pack away from his face. She couldn't help but notice that she'd been forced to stand between his spread legs to get close enough to inspect the nasty cut on his temple and the bruising around his eye.

_Now is not the time, Molly._

"I fell." He grimaced as her fingers carefully explored the cut.

"You-you fell?" Sherlock was rarely clumsy unless he was chemically compromised-- _Drunk or high, Molly. Don't sugar coat it._ \--or attempting to play the fool for a case.

"Pushed would be the more precise term. Brief altercation with the ex of a former client. He was smuggling drugs in the wheel well of her car, you know how these things go. Police called in. Drugs confiscated. I'm called in to testify at a hearing. Idiot goes to jail for a short period of time. He's judged suitably reformed, and released back onto the streets to do it all again. End result was my face connecting with a phone box and his shoulder is most likely dislocated. We agreed to disagree on the matter, and went our separate ways. Judging from the bleeding, I may need stitches."

Molly leaned closer and gently ghosted her fingers across his temple. She could feel his warm breath against her neck, and once again cursed her involuntary reaction to this man. "I doubt it. Head wounds always bleed excessively."

She forced herself to concentrate on the problem at hand, not the man himself and how he made her feel. "It looks like the actual cut itself is relatively small, you can probably make do with some Steristrips to hold it together, and a bit of gauze to keep it clean if you're planning to get filthy in the next few days. It is going to hurt a lot, though. I'm more worried about the swelling around your eye. Any loss of vision?"

"No. None. This isn't my first black eye and I'm sure it won't be the last. I do know what signs to look for." He smirked. "So to speak."

"Funny." The tone of her voice made it clear that his little quip was anything but. She awkwardly twisted to reach for the hand towel hanging beside the sink. When she started to tilt, Sherlock's free arm wrapped around her waist to hold her upright.

Molly ignored the surge of utterly inappropriate warmth emanating from the contact, and wet the towel under the tap. 

"We, umm, we need to get you cleaned up, and then off to hospital."

Sherlock shook his head and winced. "Nope. Don't have time for that. They'll ask questions I don't care to answer, there will be tedious paperwork, and probably a police interview. I'm on a case, and now it's doubly important that you help me. There are sticking plasters in the medicine cabinet."

He kept his arm around her even though she had begun to dab the blood away and was no longer at risk for overbalancing.

"You went to Barts so I could clean you up? You do remember that John deals with the living patients. I don't usually get my hands on them until they've died. Sorry." Molly winced in sympathy as he jerked his head away from her. The hand that had been around her waist fisted around the bottom hem of her cardigan so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Three things. One, I have been forbidden from distracting John with anything less than a request from the Queen herself for the next few weeks since the baby has finally made her appearance. Two, it's a good thing your patients are already dead because that hurts like hell. Three, I didn't get injured until I was already on my way home from Barts. I'd gone there because I needed your help with the case I'm working on, but you weren't there." Even though she couldn't see his expression clearly, she could tell he was annoyed about that.

Molly finished cleaning the blood off his face and tossed the soiled towel into the sink. She tried to take a step away so she could dig through the medicine cabinet, but Sherlock still had a tight hold on her cardigan. Molly sighed and tapped the back of his hand. "Let go."

He looked surprised, as if he'd been unaware of what he had been doing. He quickly released her and transferred the offending hand to his own thigh, digging his nails into the fabric of his trousers.

"If there's no body, no _real_ body, and you needed me before you decided to pick a fight-"

"I didn't start it."

"Before you decided to participate in a fight." She set a tube of antibiotic ointment, some cotton wipes, and a box of sticking plasters on the rim of the sink. "Then what did you need?"

"A distraction." Sherlock began to explain as she patched him up. "I need to speak with a gentleman, if you can call him that, regarding my current case. He's agreed to meet with me, but only on his terms. Unfortunately, the bar he chose for our meeting is owned and operated by the brother of a woman I helped send to prison. I would prefer not to be recognized, and that means I need to divert the barman's attention away from myself, and force his focus on to my distraction. You."

"Stop squirming. You get injured often enough, this should be old hat by now." Molly carefully put the last plaster in place and leaned back to inspect her handiwork. "All done. I still think John would be more help. With your injury, and at the bar."

"He would, normally. But he's not the right sort of distraction for tonight. It's not that kind of a bar." 

Sherlock began to stand and she quickly backed into the hall and out of his way. He paused to look at his reflection in the mirror, fiddling with his curls to try to camouflage some of the damage to his temple. 

"Pardon?"

"He's not the type to hold the barman's interest for long. He has a clear preference: brunette, petite, attractive, and--the biggest strike against John--female. I think you'll agree that John won't do this time." 

She wasn't absolutely positive, because it didn't seem to be the sort of thing Sherlock would do, but Molly thought he may have just implied that she was attractive. Or, at least, attractive enough to meet tonight's criteria. It brought a tiny smile to her lips.

He gestured to his face. "Thanks to this, it's even more important that you keep the barman occupied until I've got the information I need."

Sherlock followed her into the short hall, forcing her to retreat into the kitchen. He gave her appearance a critical once over that set her teeth on edge even before he bothered opening his mouth.

"What you're wearing won't do. Did you really go on a date like that?"

Once again she wondered if Greg would be willing to help her cover up a murder. Something drawn out and painful, perhaps involving tiny little needles or thumbscrews. _Where would one would even find thumbscrews in this day and age?_

"I'd say it was a first date. Set up through a friend. You would have made more of an effort if it was someone you'd met and exchanged contact information with on your own. That's one of your less hideous cardigans, true, but still frumpy. You've got better, more attractive clothing. I've been through your wardrobe, I know it's there. But you chose not to wear any of it. Why?"

"Sherlock." Molly's voice carried a note of warning, which he ignored because he was Sherlock Bloody Holmes. 

"You didn't want to go out to dinner tonight. Was it because of your date specifically, or just a general malaise?" He tilted his head, studying her once more. "The date, I think. Your friend told you about him before hand and you already suspected it wouldn't work out. Earlier, I assumed he was an idiot, practically everyone is, but this one must have been particularly dull and boring; hence your willingness to abandon him so early in the evening."

She huffed. "You said there was a body. What else was I supposed to do?"

"You aren't denying he was boring." He waited a moment to see if she would, but Molly bit her lower lip and kept silent. 

"He helped you with your coat. There's blond hair on your shoulder. Taller than you, but only just. I noticed no lingering scent of aftershave or cologne when we were in the bathroom, your hair is still neat, and your lipstick isn't smudged. That indicates there was no goodnight kiss. Probably very little, if any, physical contact at all. I'm uncertain as to why you would agree to meet him in the first place since he clearly is nothing like-" 

Something in her expression must have finally got through to him because he quickly slipped past her to stand in the sitting room. "He's nothing like Tom," he finished once he was safely out of reach.

They both knew that he hadn't been about to compare her date to her ex-fiancé.

"As I was saying, you won't do at all. Right now you look nothing like the kind of woman that usually approaches your mark. I need you to hold his attention, but not make him suspicious. You'll have to change."

"What?" The quick switch of topic from her dull date (damn him for being right) back to her appearance momentarily threw her. 

"Your clothes. Take them off."

"Wha-What?! Have you lost your mind?" Yes, there had been a time when she would have loved to have heard those words coming from his lips--several times, if she was feeling totally honest, which she really wasn't at the moment--but this wasn't anything like she'd imagined it. 

And she was over Sherlock, anyway. Mostly. Sort of.

_Shite._

"There isn't enough time to go shopping. We'll have to make do with what I can find here. I wonder if Mrs Hudson still has anything left over from her days as an exotic dancer?"

He disappeared out the door and down the stairs before she could do more than repeat "What?" for the third time.

Left alone in the kitchen for several minutes, Molly debated grabbing her things and trying to sneak out of the building. 

It occurred to her that another option would be calling John. Sherlock had said that he was forbidden from bothering John, but nobody had told her she couldn't. She actually had her mobile phone out and was thumbing through her contacts when Sherlock returned.

"She wasn't home. I couldn't find anything from her dancing career, but I did find these." Sherlock had returned with a wad of black material in one hand and a pair of heels in the other. "They're a bit big, judging from what little I've seen of your figure recently. It's difficult to tell under the jumpers and ill-fitting trousers you favour. Why haven't you undressed?"

There were so many things wrong with what he'd just said, it took Molly a moment to decide which to touch on first. "Did you really just break into Mrs Hudson's flat to ransack through her clothes?"

He began to herd her back toward the bathroom. "I don't think it counts as breaking in if the flat owner has given you a key for emergencies."

"Yes. I'm pretty sure it does."

"Really? Hmm." Sherlock dumped a skirt, a pretty black silk scarf that glittered in the light, and the shoes on the toilet lid; then disappeared into his room for a moment before emerging with a white, men's button down shirt. "Here, take this. I'm fairly certain I've got some safety pins, somewhere. We should be able to pin the skirt tight enough to keep it from falling off. What colour is your brassier?"

Molly realized he was staring at her chest, which she found highly disconcerting. 

"Never mind. Nothing of Mrs Hudson's would fit you anyway, she's at least a cup size larger than you. Whatever you've got on will have to work."

The calculating look on his face flustered her so much that she blurted out the first thought that came to mind. 

"For someone who has no interest, you spend an awful lot of time contemplating the size of my breasts."

It was a rare thing, indeed, to see Sherlock Holmes utterly flummoxed. Molly grinned, pleased to know that she wasn't the only one feeling out of their depth. It was difficult to be certain, but she thought there might even have been a slight pinkish hue blossoming on his cheeks.

He harrumphed and looked anywhere but at her. "You are clearly mistaken."

Old Molly would have let it drop and quickly changed the topic; but the new, bolder, post-the-Fall Molly, who was still annoyed at being dragged away from her boring date with a nice if terminally boring man by the pillock of a consulting detective standing before her, refused to keep her mouth shut. Later she would wonder where her self-preservation skills had temporarily run off to, but by then it was too late. 

"Mistaken about what? The amount of time you've thought about my breasts, or your lack of interest?"

His face went blank. Rather than answer her, he turned and left the room. She heard him rummaging through drawers in the kitchen before his head came back into view around the door. "We're running behind. Don't just stand there, woman. Strip."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Mrs Hudson's heels, while lovely and a tiny bit racy, were definitely too big. They'd been forced to stuff wads of toilet tissue into the toes. She could tell that her entire gait had been thrown off. Getting down the stairs from Sherlock's flat had been a nightmare. She'd almost fallen at one point. Most likely would have if it hadn't been for his hands grabbing her waist to keep her steady. He'd even commented on her clumsiness, and something else about the strange sway of her hips drawing too much attention to how the skirt outlined her bum.

"I'm not the one who insisted I needed to wear a skirt. My trousers are upstairs, I can have my annoying bum and strange hips covered up in a matter of minutes," she'd snapped back. 

That earned her an admonishment to stop being childish and hurry up. 

Sherlock had asked the cabbie to drop them off a block away from the bar. After a failed attempt to scoot herself out of the cab in her borrowed clothes and shoes, he'd huffed and reached in to grasp her hand and haul her out. 

Molly started to carefully make her way toward the bar when Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her into the mouth of a nearby alley. 

"Stand still," he ordered. 

She struggled not to fidget as he inspected her poorly put together disguise. 

Back at his flat, Sherlock had told her to hold the shirt up out of his way; then dropped to his knees to pin the skirt around her waist. More than once she'd felt the brush of his fingers against the skin of her back and stomach, and it had taken everything she had to keep from gasping at the contact. He'd stood, smoothed the shirt down around her hips, and wrapped the scarf around her as a belt. After that, he'd yanked the tie from her hair and told her to see if she could make it look less flat and bland.

Just like that, any lingering tingles from his touch were gone and her earlier irritation with him was back. She'd padded, barefoot, into his bathroom and spent several minutes teasing and torturing her hair into having some semblance of volume. It really was the best she could do with only his comb and no hairpins or product to hold it in place. 

While she'd been fixing her hair, he had been going through her purse. He appeared at the bathroom door with her mascara, lip gloss, and a small bottle of her favourite perfume in hand.

"It's not ideal, but it's a step in the right direction," he had proclaimed once she'd finished touching up her makeup; and she had wanted to kick him with the pointy toe of Mrs Hudson's purloined heel. "Or misdirection, in this case."

Molly sighed and rubbed her hands up and down her arms, wondering why they were still standing in the alley. There was a chill in the air and he'd refused to let her bring the coat she'd been wearing when she arrived at Baker Street.

"Do you remember what I told you?"

She rolled her eyes. They'd gone over this in the cab. "You want me to enter the bar first, look around and make eye contact with as many patrons as I can. Then I'm supposed to go up to the bar, distract the bartender, and wait for your signal to let me know when you're done."

"That's a bit of an over simplification, but you've got most of it. Do whatever you need to keep the barman's attention on you as much as possible: order drinks, flirt, complain that your date is running late and you think he may have stood you up. Whatever women do to attract the attention of a potential mate. Try to appear available, chat him up."

How was she supposed to know what other women did to attract men. It wasn't as if she made a habit of hitting the clubs to pull on a Saturday night, was it? She couldn't even get Sherlock to notice she was a female the majority of the time, and she'd been tilting at that particular windmill on and off for years. The few times she'd tried had always ended embarrassingly poorly. "How exactly does one go about looking available? Should I write a note that reads 'I'm a sure thing, ask me out' on a coaster?"

"I don't think it will have to come to that, but you may want to keep it in mind."

She growled at him through clenched teeth, "Can we just go? I'm freezing to death out here."

"Almost." Sherlock mussed the hair around her face a bit, draping it just so with a critical eye. Then he reached down and quickly unbuttoned the first two buttons on her shirt. 

She gasped, shocked at his actions and at the way he was intently staring at her bosom. Again. Her breath came faster, shallower. It only took a second for her to realize he didn't have the expression of a man who desired a woman (she'd been engaged, she recognized it when she saw it, no matter what some people might think); rather he had the same expression he usually wore when examining a particularly interesting mould specimen under the microscope.

He hesitated a moment, his hand hovering in front of her cleavage, then unfastened a third button before Molly slapped his hand away.

"Off limits to you, Mister Not-Interested." Molly glared and poked him in the chest with her finger. "You owe me big for this, Sherlock Holmes. Big."

She shouldered past him and made a point to put even more sway into her "strange" hips, just to annoy him.

Once in the bar, Molly thought she could sense him quietly slip through the door behind her. With a deep breath that only served to remind her of how uncomfortably on display she felt, she did as he'd instructed.

Molly walked further into the bar. She put her hand on her cocked hip as she looked around the room, searching for her non-existent missing boyfriend, before pouting and swaying her way to the bar.

She felt utterly ridiculous, but the appreciative looks she received as she slid onto a bar stool and crossed her legs helped ease her apprehension a bit.

At one point she glanced around while Shaun, the extremely attractive man behind the counter, left to fill another customer's drink order. She saw Sherlock talking intently with a dark man in one of the booths; so he'd found the man he had been looking for. Molly quickly looked away and smiled at Shaun when he came back. 

She had no idea exactly how long she'd been perched on the tall bar stool; long enough to stop worrying that someone was going to figure out she was a fraud, at least. Her job was to keep Shaun distracted, which really wasn't that much of a hardship after the first drink or so. Regular old boring Molly felt very out of place; but tonight she was playing a part and didn't have to worry about embarrassing herself or meeting someone 'appropriate'. Tonight she flirted and batted her eyelashes, and had gone so far as to blown Shaun a kiss the last time he'd walked by and handed her a little plastic skewer of cherries. He'd smirked and winked when she'd daintily pulled the first one off with her teeth.

Obviously she'd been there long enough to think it was a good idea to accept another drink from the decent looking gentleman sitting next to her. He put his hand on her exposed knee and leaned close to whisper a request for her phone number into her ear. It was tempting. It had been ages since someone had looked at her like that; the last had been Tom, just after Mary and John's wedding. Before the jealousy, the ultimatum, and the rather anticlimactic end of her engagement.

But that wasn't what she was there for. She had a job to do. Before she could come up with an appropriate excuse to put him off, someone inserted himself between her and her admirer. The newcomer kept his back to the bar and Shaun. "Hello, luv. Sorry to keep you waitin'. This guy botherin' you?"

It took Molly several seconds to realize the man with the slicked back hair, slouched shoulders, black eye, telltale sticking plasters on his temple, and a nearly overpowering aroma of gin wafting about him was Sherlock Holmes.

Molly grinned at her deduction, inordinately pleased with her observational skills, and overbalanced toward him on the stool. "Sher-" 

Suddenly there is a strong hand behind her neck, pulling her even closer and on to her feet. Sherlock forcefully pressed his closed lips against hers, cutting off his name before she could finish saying it. Her eyes fluttered closed, hands sliding up his chest and around his neck to plaster herself against him. Her lips parted on a sigh, and Sherlock caught the lower one between his teeth just hard enough to bring her back to her senses.

"Ready to go home, luv?" His voice was even deeper than usual, huskier. Molly wondered if it was simply Sherlock playing the part of an amorous boyfriend, or if it were a reaction to the kiss. She honestly didn't know which she'd prefer.

"Dying to, pumpkin." Molly began to giggle again, this time at the absurdity of his scowling reaction to the pet name.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill, barely glancing at it before tossing it on the bar behind him.

When he led her out of the bar, the combination of drink and the borrowed heels made her cling to his side like a limpet. Sherlock flagged down a cab and helped her in. Poured her in, really. She felt strangely fluid as she slid onto the backseat. Molly realized he'd never get into the cab if she didn't move over, so she awkwardly crawled across the seat on her hands and knees until she could press her cheek against the cool glass on the other side. That felt heavenly, and her eyes momentarily closed. Someone tugged on her ankle and Molly belatedly remembered she was making room for Sherlock. With a bit of manoeuvring, she plopped down on her half of the seat. She thought she caught the cabbie giving her the eye in the rearview mirror, and considered sticking her tongue out at him. She definitely saw the glare Sherlock aimed at the driver, almost as if he were silently defending her honour, and that made her feel warm and strangely tingly.

Sherlock gave the cabbie her address. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and started texting someone, muttering to himself. "It will be faster if Lestrade meets me at Baker Street. He should be there by the time I return from dropping you off. There's one or two things I need to pick up before he arrests the-"

His words came to an abrupt halt in mid-stream when Molly reached out and squeezed his knee. "Could you think . . . quieter?" 

He leaned back and away from her, shifting his leg out from under her hand, and frowned at her. "How much did you have to drink?"

She knew this. Or she thought she knew this. Molly held up four fingers and very confidently said, "Three."

The cool window glass beckoned again. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against it.

"We were in there no more than an hour. Three, no four. Definitely four alcoholic drinks in an hour, with your slight body mass. You, Molly Hooper, are pissed off your rocker."

"I would say that is a valid hypothesis, Mr Holmes." Molly giggled again, then made the mistake of opening her eyes to look out the window as London rolled by. Her stomach started to rebel, and she was a little afraid that she was going to be ill all over the taxi and Mrs Hudson's shoes. 

She pulled sharply away from the window, and ended up propped up against Sherlock's arm. "I don't feel so well. Bit dizzy."

"Yes, well, no surprise there. Why on Earth did you drink so much if you can't handle it?"

Molly tilted her head up until she could see the bottom of his chin. "You told me to keep Shaun distracted, and I did."

"Shaun?"

"Hot bartender."

"Ah. Well, I didn't tell you to drink the place dry." He looked down at her, frowning.

"It was that or the coaster and I don't think I could fake being a coaster kind of girl." Her eyes slowly closed as she slumped against him. 

"Molly."

"Hmmm?"

"John's going to blame me for this, isn't he?"

"Nooooo, he wouldn't do that. Would he? Wait. Yes. Yes, he definitely would." She blindly reached up and patted in the general direction of his cheek, then sing-songed, "You're going to be in trouble."

With an irritated sigh, Sherlock leaned forward to tap the partition between them and the cab driver, nearly dislodging her in the process. "Change of plans. Take us to 221B Baker Street."

The driver grumbled something about stupid drunks not being able to make up their mind. She could feel the cab slow and turn, then nothing more until Sherlock shook her arm.

"Wake up. We're here."

"Wasn't asleep. Just restin' my eyes." 

"Of course you were."

She didn't think he really believed her.

He had already exited the cab, and she gratefully let him help her out. She waited on the stoop as he paid the driver, then unlocked the door to his building. "I'm thirsty."

Sherlock began to push her up the stairs. "I'll get you some water in a minute. Up we go, there's a good girl."

Once they were in his flat, he left her standing in the middle of the sitting room and went to fetch her promised glass of water. 

"Am I staying the night?"

Even from behind, she could see him tense as he filled a glass at the sink. "I thought that might be for the best."

She frowned, unsure as to why he was acting so strange, when it occurred to her that he might think that she was going to assume that he was . . . And then Molly's head spun for a moment, forcing her to rather abruptly sit on the sofa. 

He was afraid she was going to get the wrong idea. Molly snorted to herself. Sherlock Holmes was unarguably an arsehole, but he wasn't the sort of arsehole to take physical advantage of someone who was clearly inebriated and unable to give informed consent. She was apparently drunk as a skunk and even she knew that. That wasn't to say he wouldn't wheedle information out of someone with alcohol loosened lips, because he definitely would do that. Which was a reminder that she needed to be extra careful to keep her babbling mouth shut.

She reached up and flipped an invisible key against her lips. Then Molly giggled as it occurred to her that if she wasn't completely over him--which she was--then it would be more likely that she would try to accost him. Which wasn't going to happen. Because she was over lusting after Sherlock Holmes. 

Except for when he was wearing that purple shirt, because that was her favourite. And really, who would fault her for admiring him in that? Even Mary thought he was attractive. And Mary was a married woman. Oh, and when he billowed into the morgue in that coat of his, acting as if he owned the place. That was more than a bit sexy. Oh, oh, and then there was the way he . . .

_Why was it so hot all of the sudden?_

Molly tipped the rest of the way over onto the closest available surface (which was squishy and comfortable, thankfully) and fanned herself. 

By the time he turned around, glass of water in hand, she'd kicked off Mrs Hudson's heels and was curled up on the sofa, barely awake.

"Can I have a pillow?" She sounded pitiful, even to herself.

Sherlock put the glass on the low table nearby and reached down to haul her up off the sofa. "Lestrade is coming and I've got work to do. You'll just be in the way out here. Come on, off to bed."

She let him guide her down the hall to his room, and then gently push her onto the unmade bed. Molly fell over backward, causing the mattress to bounce a bit, and laughed. This entire evening was just too surreal to believe. 

The room was barely lit by the soft glow of street lamps and the muted light from the sitting room down the hall. It took a second for her eyes to adjust before she saw Sherlock standing over her with a disapproving frown.

She ignored him and twisted her head this way and that to try to see as much of his room as possible. "I don't think I've ever been in here before. Have I? Sherlock's bedroom. It's so . . . normal. Nothing like I imagined. Nothing like your Janine implied in all those kiss-and-tell interviews. I wonder how many other women have been in here before. Probably lots."

Sherlock leaned over her and started to untie the scarf around her waist. Once he'd pulled the material out from under her, Molly lifted herself up on her elbows and looked at him very seriously. "Do you? Have lots of women in here?"

"Not as many as you seem to think, no." He carefully rolled her sideways and pushed the borrowed shirt up her back just enough to get to the safety pins holding her skirt together. Once she was pin free, she felt the skirt zip slide down, and then she was on her back again. He flipped the sheet over her lower half, then reached under it to grab the hem of her skirt. As soon as she figured out what he was up to, she lifted her bum to help, and the skirt slid down her legs and off. 

"Do you want to sleep in your bra, or can you manage that on your own?" 

It took her less than two seconds to think that through. "Turn 'round." She pointed toward the wall behind him.

He did turn, thankfully. She had no clue what she would have done if he hadn't. Probably slept in the damn thing since she was far too chicken to remove it while he watched, even when tipsy. _Drunk, Molly. You're drunk._

"You said it's nothing like you imagined."

"Hmm?" Molly struggled with the shirt and the clasp of her bra, attempting to do that thing that most women instinctively seemed to figure out early on. The thing where their bra comes off while the outer garment stays on. She'd never had a problem before; but then again, she'd never tried to do it while Sherlock was standing a few feet away, either.

"You've imagined my bedroom?"

She crowed in success as she pulled the annoying underwire torture device out of the neck of the shirt and flung it away, narrowly missing hitting him in the back. Wrestling with it had taken more effort than she'd expected, and that's when Molly decided it was probably time to take a little nap.

She peeked up at him as he helped her scoot into place with her head on a pillow. "Of course I have. I'm a woman and you're Sherlock Holmes, with the hair and the cheek bones and that smile and that voice. We both know I had a little crush on you." She looked sad as she continued. "Everyone knows I had a crush on you. It's a little humiliating when you think about it. I don't like thinking about it."

She brightened again, and flashed a beautiful smile in his direction. "But I don't have a crush on you anymore because that would be stupid; and no matter what you think, I am not a stupid girl. I'm not. I'm smart, and very good at my job, and some people even think I'm pretty."

Molly's eyes drifted closed, but a small trace of her smile remained on her lips. 

She thought she imagined his voice--deliciously soft and deep--whisper, "Yes, they do." Then she was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

A foul taste in her mouth and a faint pounding in her head were the first things Molly noticed as she woke up.

Next was the realization that she was definitely not in her own bed. Her sheets are soft, but not nearly this soft. The mattress was much more comfortable than her sturdy, serviceable one. The warm light from the window was on the wrong side.

One eye cracked open just enough to confirm her suspicion that she wasn't in her own bedroom, then snapped shut while her mind scrambled to put two and two together to get an answer that didn't equal her tucked into the extremely comfortable bed of Sherlock Holmes. Because the very idea was incredibly unlikely, utterly insane, and far too exciting to fully appreciate while she was miserably hung-over.

She gave up trying to convince herself she was wrong, and screwed up the courage to open both eyes to face the day. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you wanted to look at it) the other side of the bed was empty and unrumpled, so she had clearly slept alone. Sherlock had left a glass of water and a packet of Alka-Seltzer tablets on the nightstand next to the bed; and Molly carefully sat up so she could make use of them. Once she'd downed most of a fizzy glassful, she finished taking stock of her situation. 

She was wearing Sherlock's shirt from the night before, and a quick check reassured her that she was still wearing her knickers. Not that there had really been much of a likelihood that she wouldn't have been. Her bra, however, seemed to have disappeared along with the rest of the things she'd been wearing the evening before, and there was no sign of the clothing she'd had on when she originally arrived at the flat. She had changed into her disguise in the bathroom; she clearly remembered leaving her things draped over the towel rack so perhaps they were still in there. Sherlock had left a dressing gown across the foot of the bed, for which she was very grateful.

It took a few moments for her to wrestle the gown on and adjust it enough that she was no longer in danger of tripping over the hem. She had to roll up the cuffs and fluff the sides up over the tied belt until her feet were visible. Molly was nearly covered from neck to foot, and yet she felt extremely exposed as she carefully shuffled her way to the bathroom. The towel rack was bare other than a haphazardly hung bath towel that was in danger of sliding off the rod. No clothes. But there was a spare toothbrush, still in its packaging, on the rim of the sink. Someone had also cleaned up the detritus from her first aid efforts the night before.

She mumbled, "Bless you, Sherlock Holmes," through a mouthful of toothpaste once her teeth no longer felt fuzzy and the rancid taste had left her tongue. 

A look in the mirror told her that her hair was a rat's nest. She borrowed his comb without a second thought. Her scalp hurt by the time the last of the tangles had been dealt with, but she was finally starting to feel human again. A shower would have made things even better, but there was no way that was going to happen until she managed to get back to her own flat. And that would require figuring out where her clothes had disappeared to. 

Eventually, when she could delay it no longer, Molly went searching for Sherlock. She poked her head out of the bathroom, then eased into the short hall just far enough to see that he wasn't in the kitchen. There was, however, a plate of fry-up on the kitchen table. Tentatively, as if she were a cautious mouse afraid of being pounced on by the household cat, Molly crept into the room and snatched up a piece of toast. It was buttery and still warm, and surprisingly delicious considering the state of her hangover. 

Sherlock was in the sitting room, sprawled in his chair. His long legs were stretched in front of him, ankles crossed. Unlike her, he was fully dressed. His hands were steepled together under his chin, eyes open but unfocused. She assumed he was tucked away in his mind palace as he was wont to do.

Her gaze remained on Sherlock as she finished her toast. Other than an eye twitch or two, his expression never changed. It was a bit of a relief, really, that he was lost in his thoughts. When he was like this she could prance around the flat naked and he'd never notice. Considering her state of near undress, she practically felt as if she were.

She quickly devoured a sausage link, then quietly moved into the sitting room to look for her things. With any luck she'd find her clothes, get changed, and be gone long before Sherlock returned from his mental excursion. 

Unfortunately, they weren't there. She remembered leaving her coat on John's chair; but it and her purse had been hung up on the back of the door next to Sherlock's Belstaff. Someone had taken the time to line her shoes up next to a pair of worn house slippers that had seen much better days. None of her other things were visible. John's chair was empty, the table in front of the sofa was clear. She even double checked the kitchen, just in case she'd somehow managed to miss them on her first pass through.

"She's got them."

Molly started, and spun around to see that Sherlock was no longer in his mind palace. He was watching her. She gathered the dressing gown tighter, hands holding it closed at her neck as if she were someone's prim maiden aunt. "Pardon?"

"Mrs Hudson. She took them earlier; to put into the wash, she said. Didn't want you toddling off looking like some sort of rumpled walk of shame. Whatever that means. She brought you something to eat, which I can see you've already found."

"She brought me food?" She realized how ridiculous she sounded the moment the words left her lips. Who else would have made breakfast for her, if not Mrs Hudson. 

"Didn't I just say?" Sherlock frowned, eyes shifting to the side as if he were running through their brief conversation to confirm he had actually spoken aloud. Seconds later his gaze returned to her. "You look like death warmed over."

"Always the flatterer, you are," Molly mumbled under her breath, well aware that she wasn't at her best. From the way he tilted his head slightly and the narrowing of his eyes, she knew Sherlock had heard her.

"Are you always so out of sorts early in the morning, or is just because you're hung-over?" 

Molly opened her mouth to issue what would surely have been a scathing retort, if only she could have thought of one. Her jaw snapped shut again, and she settled for a glare, which he promptly ignored.

"Eat your breakfast, then go clean yourself up. Take a shower, you'll feel better. Definitely look and smell better. I suggest you stay in there long enough to let your pores fully open and purge the last of the alcohol out of your system. Your things should be dry by the time you're done."

The urge to turn around and lock herself in the bathroom for a good cry was strong. Sherlock had never been one to pull his punches simply to spare someone's feelings, so Molly had no idea why she would have expected him to do so in this instance. Still, it hurt.

"I don't feel like eating." She could hear the sullen whine in her voice, and silently prayed for some form of divine intervention to extract her from her current predicament.

"Of course you do, you've already had a piece of toast and some sausage. For God's sake, I can hear your stomach complaining from over here. Stop being petulant and eat, Molly."

Utterly uncomfortable and wanting nothing more than to escape from the flat--from Sherlock, from life in general at the moment--she reluctantly settled into one of the kitchen chairs and studiously ignored him as she finished the meal that Mrs Hudson had prepared for her.

Sherlock didn't say another word while she was eating; and a brief glance in his direction as she put the empty plate in the sink showed her that he was once again deep in thought.

Grateful to no longer be under observation, Molly disappeared into the bathroom to take her shower. 

Half an hour later, when she finally emerged from behind the shower curtain, her clothes were waiting on the toilet lid, nicely folded. 

Molly hoped--really and truly hoped, with all her heart--that Mrs Hudson had been the one to put them there. That it may have been Sherlock . . . 

That there was a tiny chance that Sherlock Holmes had been in the same room while she was wet and naked, separated from her by only a thin shower curtain . . . 

Would it be worse to think that he might have been tempted to peek behind the curtain, or that he hadn't been tempted at all? She wouldn't, couldn't, let herself contemplate either option at the moment.

It took most of her willpower, and a brief pep talk, to get her out of the bathroom and into the sitting room.

He wasn't there. He wasn't in the flat, period.

Rather than the relief she should have felt, there was a small wave of disappointment that she struggled to ignore.

She was halfway down the stairs before she remembered Sherlock's comment about a walk of shame. He may not have understood the reference, but Molly did. If Mrs Hudson had bothered to mention it to him, then she must have thought that Molly and Sherlock had . . .

_Shite. Double shite._

Molly redoubled her efforts to sneak out of the building as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, luck was not on her side. She was nearly to the front door when she heard the one to Mrs Hudson's flat open behind her.

"Good morning. I see Sherlock managed to pass on your things before he left, then?" 

Molly turned to discover the older woman leaning against her doorframe with a knowing grin.

It had been Sherlock. He'd been in the bathroom. While she'd been in the shower. She filed that information away to thoroughly panic over later.

"It's not what it looks like." Molly winced, horrified to hear her denial come out as high-pitched squeak.

Mrs Hudson shook her head and came closer. "Oh, I don't judge, dear. I was young once, too, you know. I remember the things Frank and I used to get up to when we were dating. A little dress-up and role play to spice things up was probably the least of it."

Molly's horror level went up several notches. "I--uh--but we didn't . . . It was for a case!"

"That's what Sherlock said when he brought my things back this morning. That he'd borrowed them for a case." Mrs Hudson winked at Molly. She actually winked.

"Still, I told him there were plenty of stores out there that sold that sort of thing. You can even order them off the internet now, if you're worried about being spotted going into a specialty shop or whatnot. That scarf was expensive, and I was very cross to hear that it had been ruined."

Admittedly, the exact details of everything that had happened between leaving the bar and when she'd woken up in Sherlock's bed were a little fuzzy, but Molly was fairly certain the scarf had been fine when Sherlock had taken it off of her. Unless something happened to it after she'd fallen asleep?

"Sherlock's offered to replace it, of course; but I told him he really needs to plan ahead next time. He can't be digging through my things every time he gets the urge to tie up his girlfriend."

Molly coughed and choked hard enough that Mrs Hudson felt the need to pat her on the back a few times. 

"It's okay, dear. I've read those Fifty Shades books." There was that wink again. "Live and let live, that's what I like to say."

Molly literally had no clue how to respond to that. Plenty of half-formed options floated through her head, but not one of them managed to make it to her lips.

"Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how happy I am for you both. Sherlock's been so lonely since John left. I never thought he'd get over that break up. But it's so sweet how they've remained friends. Still close enough for him to be John's best man at the wedding. That's a true bond, that is. Not everyone can stay on such good terms with their ex."

Molly sputtered something that must have sounded like an agreement because Mrs Hudson took it as her cue to keep talking.

"I don't think he even stopped feeling lonely when that woman was still coming 'round all the time and staying the night. I never did like her. What's her name? Jenny? Geraldine? Unimportant really. She kept hinting that Sherlock should change this or stop doing that, moving things around his rooms; and you know how Sherlock hates to have someone move his things. She even asked me why I kept coming upstairs to tidy up when I went up to bring him tea, accusing me of being nosy, as if she had some right. I don't know why he put up with her constantly being underfoot for so long."

"He said it was for a case, Mrs Hudson." 

"Everything is always for a case with him, isn't it? Well, I suppose it makes more sense than the two of them actually dating. She never did seem to be his type. You know, I don't think Sherlock ever spent more than a handful of nights here when she was staying over. I remember thinking how strange it was, to find her upstairs alone in the mornings, and Sherlock popping in after being out all night, just as she was leaving for work. Almost as if he'd timed it that way on purpose."

As he had spent several of those nights tucked into her bed whilst she had tossed and turned on her own sofa, Molly had been well aware that Sherlock had ditched his girlfriend on several occasions. He'd told her that it was difficult to think with Janine laying next to him--something about the sound of her breathing setting his teeth on edge--and that he'd needed the peace and quiet of Molly's flat to concentrate. She'd thought it odd that a man who had never before bothered with a girlfriend would finally get one, then spend so much time trying to avoid her. Then again Molly found most of the things Sherlock did to be odd, so she'd simply agreed and resigned herself to being kicked out of her own room from time to time.

Sherlock's unscheduled visits and the way he would take over her bedroom with very little notice had annoyed Tom to no end. Sherlock hadn't been the sole reason behind the end of her engagement, but his nearly unrestricted presence in her flat had caused a fair amount of tension between her and Tom. It had also instigated the fight that had been the death blow to the relationship. The final straw had been the morning Tom had shown up unexpectedly and discovered Sherlock impatiently waiting outside her bathroom while she'd been in the shower. Sherlock had been wearing her best dressing gown, a cream coloured bit of satin froth that Tom had given her shortly after they'd become engaged. Molly herself had only worn it a handful of times. She'd tried to make light of the incident by pointing out that at least he'd been wearing _something_ since Sherlock preferred to sleep in the nude; which, in retrospect, had been exactly the wrong thing to say. 

Tom had refused to let her explain that she only knew about Sherlock's sleeping habits because John liked to tell very amusing anecdotes about all the various times he'd seen Sherlock wrapped in only a sheet. Even once at Buckingham Palace, strangely enough. And then there was the especially hilarious story about the time Sherlock had forgotten (or just didn't care) he had a flatmate, and had wandered into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea--completely starkers, not even a sheet--only to find John speaking with a potential client. John had regaled everyone at Mrs Hudson's last birthday dinner with that one (complete with a pantomime). Tom hadn't stuck around to hear Molly try to retell it. 

Mrs Hudson was still talking, shaking her head in disapproval. "I've seen in the papers that they've been out a few times since they broke up. I just figured they were trying to give it a go, again. See if they could make it work, you know? It was always such a relief each time when nothing much seemed to come of it. Does that make me a horrible person, being happy that Sherlock can't make it work with that woman? Although, if it really was just for a case, I suppose it doesn't matter what I think, does it?"

Molly eyed the front door, and wondered if Mrs Hudson would notice if she were to slip out.

"Sherlock never acted himself around her, did he? Too attentive. Too . . . affectionate. Extremely unsettling to see, really. Unnatural. Anyway, I'm sure you'll make him so much happier."

Mrs Hudson seemed to be winding down. Molly saw her opening and jumped on it. "Uh huh. Thank you for washing my things and breakfast, and it's been lovely to talk to you this morning; but I really, really need to get home and feed my cat."

"Of course, dear. You let me know next time you're coming over, and I'll make sure there's something to nibble on in his cupboards. You know Sherlock never remembers to do the shopping."

"Right. I'll be sure to do that." Molly scampered before Mrs Hudson offered to pick up contraceptives to tuck into Sherlock's nightstand, or something equally inappropriate.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Since Molly had slept later than usual-- _Thank you for nothing, Sherlock._ \--there hadn't been time to swing by her place before she had to leave for work. The weather was nice enough and she thought stretching her legs would help work off the last of her hang-over, so Molly decided to walk to Barts.

On the way, she called Jacob, her neighbour, to see if he'd be willing to pop across the hall to feed Toby. He'd offered to send his husband over, much to her relief. The chances of discovering a particularly nasty hairball in her house slippers dropped considerably if Toby's feeding schedule remained consistent. She'd listened the entire walk to Barts as Jacob explained that Mike had taken a work holiday, and wouldn't be leaving on any business trips for an entire week. They were planning to explore London as if they were a pair of tourists. A second honeymoon according to Jacob, who had been giddy about the idea.

Molly didn't even try to pretend she wasn't envious of how happy the couple were. It had been a tiny bit of a relief to end the call as she walked through the doors of the hospital.

Her morning was busy--two suspicious deaths, both straight forward enough not to warrant Sherlock's interest, thankfully--and she'd been very grateful for Mrs Hudson's thoughtfulness in making her breakfast.

Now, however, it was nearing one and Molly was starving. Meena had made her swear that they'd meet up for lunch; and thanks to her afternoon line-up of an arson victim and several hours of backlog in the lab, the hospital canteen was the obvious option.

Even if the food occasionally made her want to crawl onto one of her slabs and wish for death. She'd learned to avoid the gluten-free eggplant parmesan for just that reason.

Once she finished passing through the line and paying for her tuna melt and crisps, Molly paused to look for her friend. It didn't take her long to realize that she wasn't the only one looking at the very pretty black woman waiting at a small table.

Molly set her tray down on the table and took a seat next to her friend. "The radiology intern seems very keen on you." 

She nodded in his direction and they both turned their full attention on the newest addition to the hospital. After realizing he'd been caught staring, the gentleman quickly looked away and began gathering up the remains of his lunch.

Meena shook her head and grimaced. "Nah."

Molly continued studying the man in question, her lips turned down in slight frown. "What's wrong with him? He seems fit enough."

"Dumber than a lamp post." Meena's expression started to turn cold as the intern finished shoving his things onto his tray, squared his shoulders, and began to head in their direction. "Case in point, neither of us looks at all welcoming or encouraging, and yet he's coming over." 

She turned her head slightly toward Molly and lowered her voice just enough to keep from being overheard by anyone at the next table. "Clarisse in reception dated him for a few weeks, said he was rubbish in bed. Utterly apparent that he had somehow managed to make it through most of med school without cracking the spine of a single anatomy textbook."

Molly snorted, then broke into a fit of giggles.

He stopped next to their table and cleared his throat. 

"Nope." Meena shook her head before he had a chance to say a single word. "I'll save you the bother; neither of us is interested in coffee, or dinner, or whatever else you were thinking about suggesting."

He flicked a glance toward Molly, who had finally managed to contain her giggles.

Meena continued, "Listen, you seem like a sweet guy from what I've been hearing, so I'll help you out. Barbara, up on the second floor, thinks you're cute. And, most importantly, she doesn't run in the same circles as your ex Clarisse so . . . You've already got that going for you." 

He looked confused, and Molly didn't blame him. "Thanks? I think?" He fidgeted, shifting his weight from side to side for a second. "Second floor, you said?"

"Second floor. Barbara. Tall. Blonde. She's got a name tag, you can't miss her." 

He continued to stand there for a moment longer, then said, "Well, thanks again. Good afternoon, ladies."

Rubbish in bed and dumb as he might be, at least he was polite.

Molly waited until he'd wandered out of the canteen, probably in search of the tall and blonde Barbara, to give in to another fit of laughter. "You are horrible."

"I should have let him embarrass himself instead?" Meena shook her head and reached for her turkey sandwich. She removed the top slice of bread and pulled the wilted lettuce off with a look of disgust. "No, I did him a kindness."

The tuna melt was surprisingly edible. Molly quickly ate half of it, and was debating saving the rest for later in the afternoon or just finishing it off right then, when Meena finally got around to the topic Molly had been dreading.

"So, I thought you said last night bombed?"

Molly slowly pulled her hand out of her crisps packet and wiped her fingers on a serviette. She felt a little paranoid about the overly innocent way her friend had asked that. "I did."

"Hmmm." Meena nodded, then pointed at Molly's cardigan and blouse. "Then why are you wearing the same clothes you put on for your date last night?"

Molly closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, annoyed at being caught out. Somehow she'd managed to forget that Meena had demanded pre-date clothing approval, and had been at her flat before she'd left for dinner with Harry.  
_Or was it Harold? No, Harry. Definitely, possibly, most likely Harry._

Once again she regretted that she hadn't been able to return to her flat before work.

Molly shrugged and tried to look interested in the rest of her lunch. "Must be a coincidence. I put them on straight out of the dryer this morning. I don't think I even realized they were the same as last night until you mentioned it."

Meena nodded again, looking completely unconvinced. She waited until Molly had shoved some more crisps in her mouth to ask, "Whose dryer?"

Somehow managing not to choke, Molly desperately reached for her water bottle to wash the mouthful of food down. She knew she was blushing and she hated it.

"I knew it! If not Harry, then who?" Meena crowed, looking thoroughly scandalized and utterly delighted. "Did you pick someone up at the restaurant while you were ditching your date? You sly cow."

"Jesus, Meena, keep your voice down! I didn't, I swear. This really was the first thing I got my hands on this morning." And that was completely truthful, even though it felt like a huge lie. 

Her friend leaned back in her chair, looking extremely disappointed. "So what happened anyway? Harry said you got a bunch of texts and had to leave."

"Yeah. That pretty much sums it up. Things weren't going great anyway, so it was probably a blessing in disguise." 

"Was it the arsehole?"

Molly shoved the rest of her cold tuna melt to the side, no longer hungry. "I've asked you not to call him that."

"It was the arsehole, wasn't it? Seriously, Molls, put him on restriction or something. You spend way too much time at his beck and call for a guy you don't even get to see naked."

"Meena!"

"It's true. We are going out after my class Saturday, and if you get even one single text from him, I'm going to toss your phone in a rubbish bin. I swear it."

Molly shook her head, half annoyed and half amused. "Fine. But not in the garbage, you can keep it in your purse. Fair enough?"

Meena grinned. "No promises."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

The morgue was ominously still and quiet, which was actually a bit of a relief for the pathologist.

Quiet meant the thick basement walls muffled the loud rhythmic rainfall and percussive cracks of thunder from the storm that had been carrying on most of the afternoon and evening. She sent a silent word of thanks upward for the London cabs that were still on duty in the torrential downpour, and an equally heartfelt prayer that they'd still be around when her shift ended.

Quiet meant there was no current need for a rushed autopsy. 

It meant no ravenous ghouls trying to free themselves from chilled drawers, regardless of what the new file clerk teased in that ridiculous 'scary' voice as he backed out of the morgue with his cart. Molly made a mental note to speak with his supervisor the next day. 

It meant no grieving relatives wanting to view a loved one.

_And it meant no brooding consulting detectives_ , her traitorous mind whispered. 

It had been over a month since she'd abandoned her blind date to help Sherlock, and she hadn't seen a sign of him since she'd left his flat the next morning. She'd run into Greg a few times, and he'd never failed to drop a word or two about how Sherlock was fairing out in the wilds of wherever he'd run off to for the last several weeks. Almost as if he thought she was desperate for news. Not that she was. It was simply reassuring to hear that he was still in contact with colleagues back home, even if she wasn't one of the chosen few. Not that she was going to let that bother her.

_Liar._

Resolving to drown out that annoying inner voice, she slipped in a pair of ear buds and started the play list designated for late nights at the morgue. Once Rob Zombie's _Living Dead Girl_ had begun, Molly turned her attention to the brain of Bryant Campbell. Bryant had died of a glioblastoma, and it was her job to skilfully forage through the grey matter to recover the small mass so that it could be taken up to the lab and biopsied.

She reached for her scalpel and lost herself in her work, quietly singing along to her music; her soft voice and bouncy head bop at odds with the lyrics.

"Interesting musical choice. A little clichéd given our present location though, don't you think?" 

Startled, Molly's hand jerked and she nearly cut herself with the scalpel. Without bothering to look up--she'd recognize that voice anywhere, after all--she carefully set the extremely sharp instrument aside and stripped off her latex gloves so she could yank the ear buds free. "The morgue isn't open to the public."

"We both know I'm not part of 'the public', don't we?" 

She could hear his footsteps coming closer and wondered how she had missed his entrance. He usually blew in like a miniature hurricane, impossible to ignore.

A quick dance of her finger across the iPod screen stopped the music.

"I think I prefer your hair loose." The observation, like so many others about her appearance, came out of nowhere. It lacked the usual cloying insincerity that often tainted his comments about her lips, weight, or hair. If it was anyone other than Sherlock, she might have believed him.

Molly whipped around, self consciously lifting her hands to smooth down any flyaway strands that might have escaped from her ponytail. "I'm working, Sherlock."

He stood next to her, stiff and tall, wrapped in that coat of his, hands tucked behind his back. His hair was a bit longer than the last time she'd seen him, but other than that he looked very much the same as always. "I didn't say you should take it down now, I merely said I prefer it loose."

Molly started to snap that he couldn't just let himself into the morgue whenever he felt like it, without a word of warning. That he couldn't just barge back into her life as if it hadn't been weeks without a word. Before a single sound escaped her lips she realized that it wasn't really Sherlock's unexpected reappearance that had her so irritated. 

She'd dealt with his absences many times before, with little more than the usual worry and annoyance; but she'd never had to deal with four weeks' worth of awkward phone calls from their mutual acquaintances before, and that was guaranteed to put anyone on edge, really.

It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John had called to thank her for keeping the consulting detective out of his hair. That whatever she'd done had been worth it because Sherlock had called to let him know that the case had been solved; and, more importantly, John hadn't been forced to follow through with his threat to unman his friend if Sherlock showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night one more time.

It wasn't even Sherlock's fault that Mrs Hudson kept calling to invite her over for tea, even though she had carefully explained each time that she and Sherlock were not a couple. 

It might have been his fault when Mrs Hudson called to ask if she knew when Sherlock would be back. There'd been a strange smell coming from his flat, and Mrs Hudson thought it may have been one of his experiments. Then again it could have also been the milk going off. Several minutes worth of reminiscing about the disgusting things she'd found in fridge had culminated in a request for Molly to come by to see if she could help figure out which of the mouldy things were important, and which were simply cheese that had been left out. That afternoon had at least ended in a slice of homemade cake.

It was definitely Sherlock's fault that Greg had called because he needed to retrieve something from Sherlock's flat; and the consulting detective had insisted that Greg needed to be watched to ensure no unnecessary drawers were rifled through. John had still been on unofficial paternity leave from his partnership with/indentured servitude to Sherlock, so she'd been volunteered to chaperone. No cake that time, although Greg had offered to buy her lunch for her trouble. She'd been running late for work, or she might have taken him up on it.

It was inarguably Sherlock's fault when Mrs Hudson called to ask if Molly had had a chance to go by one of those shops they'd discussed before; because Mrs Hudson had been reading an article in one of those ladies' glamour magazines about light bondage in the bedroom, and it had some rather good advice if Molly would like to borrow it. Molly had politely declined, and briefly considered getting a new number or tossing her current phone all together.

Molly had finally snapped three days ago and given up protesting that she and Sherlock were not a couple during Mrs Hudson's latest phone call. Instead, she'd told the older woman that she and Sherlock had broken up. It was a mutual parting, she had assured Mrs Hudson. No one to blame really, but they had both agreed that Sherlock's erratic schedule made it too difficult for them to ever be anything more than friends.

Mrs Hudson had clucked and fussed over the phone. "You feel free to come visit anytime you like. Just because things didn't work out for you and Sherlock, that does not mean that you need to cut yourself off from the friends the two of you share. I've come to think of you as one of our quirky little family, and I insist you come 'round next week for tea. I'll bake a cake."

Molly had actually been considering it. Mrs Hudson's cakes really were delicious, and the offer did sound tempting.

"Does my schedule bother you?"

"Pardon?" She realized she'd been lost in her own thoughts and not paying attention.

"The way I run off at a moment's notice, disappearing at all hours, for days or weeks on end when I'm working on a case."

She frowned, confused at first, and then a wave of embarrassment made her want to do a disappearing act of her own. "You've been talking to Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm sure you can imagine my surprise in returning home only to be accosted by my concerned housekeeper-"

"Landlady."

"-telling me that she was sorry to hear we'd broken up." 

He waited, obviously expecting her to offer some sort of apologetic explanation. She stubbornly kept silent. 

That entire thing with Mrs Hudson was clearly his fault. He was the one who hadn't bothered to correct Mrs Hudson's assumptions. Molly wasn't about to make excuses for something she hadn't been able to avoid.

They continued to stare at each other for a full--extremely awkward--minute before she buckled and looked away. "I could use a cup of coffee. Do you want one?"

Sherlock frowned, thrown by the non sequitur. "All right. Black, two-"

"Sugars. Yes, I remember. Meet you upstairs." Molly swept out of the morgue in an exit that could have rivalled one of Sherlock's melodramatic retreats. It was against proper hospital protocol to leave him unsupervised in the morgue like that, but she didn't particularly care at the moment. 

Ten minutes later Molly was ready to face Sherlock again. She found him sitting on the stool in front of the microscope he tended to favour when he was utilizing the lab. She placed a cup of coffee on the table near him. "What do you have this time?"

"I'm not sure. I got bored waiting, and found a slide over there." He gestured in the general direction of the rest of the lab, not even bothering to look up from the microscope.

Molly settled onto a nearby stool and waited. She blew on her coffee, then took a tentative sip to give herself something to do.

"You never answered my question. Does my schedule bother you?"

Molly took another sip as she considered it for a moment. She wondered if there had been a grain of truth in the excuse she'd given Mrs Hudson and realized there really wasn't. "No. It doesn't bother me. It's what you do, it's part of what makes you, well, you."

He finally stopped fiddling with the microscope and looked up, turning his head to watch her.

"I mean, I do worry. Can't help it, really. When you disappear without a word, I understand, I really do. But I worry. The two years you were gone . . ." She took another drink of her coffee to keep from babbling any more.

Sherlock turned his entire body toward her. He leaned his hip against the table, giving her his full attention. The scrutiny made her fidget.

His brows drew together, forming that sharp vertical line that appeared when he was considering something particularly complex. As she watched, Sherlock's eyes grew unfocused, darting from side to side as if he were reading a book or searching for some bit of data locked away in his mind. His lower lip quivered slightly as his gaze sharpened, until she felt like he was once again studying her.

"I told Mycroft to keep you updated. You couldn't have been told any details, obviously, but I instructed him to make sure you knew I was all right whenever I checked in. I know it wasn't as often as it should have been but-" The rapid shaking of her head brought his words to a stop before he had a chance to finish his thought.

"Not a word. I never even saw your brother after he took you away that day. Not until you were back."

"That rat bastard."

Molly jumped, startled by his vehemence, and nearly spilt her coffee. She quickly put the cup on the table next to her to get it out of her hands.

The look on his face told her that Mycroft Holmes was going to get an earful very, very soon. She had to admit that she didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.

The knowledge that Sherlock had wanted her to know he was safe, that he'd been thinking of her while he was away . . . It was a dangerous feeling. One she desperately wanted to ignore and couldn't.

Eventually Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, which must have grown cold while they'd been distracted, and grimaced. 

Molly caught sight of the wall clock near the door, and jumped up off her stool. "I've really got to get back to work, Sherlock. Just tell me what you want so I can get back to Bryant before he dries out."

"Who?"

Molly winced. She really needed to stop giving names to the body parts that she worked with. Or she needed to stop admitting to people that she was naming body parts. Although, if anyone would understand, it would be someone who kept a skull named Billy on his fireplace mantel.

She shook her head. "Not important. What do you want?"

Sherlock somehow managed to look insulted. "What makes you think I want something?"

She held up her hand and started counting off with her fingers. "One, I haven't seen you for a month, and then out of nowhere you show up here. You don't do small talk and you haven't got an experiment running, so there has to be another reason." 

Molly held up a second finger. "Two, you complimented my hair. Sort of. You don't do compliments unless you're trying to butter someone up. Don't think I haven't cottoned on to that, by the way."

She knew she was getting sidetracked, but she couldn't help giving voice to something that had been irritating her since not long after Sherlock had returned from his two years away. "Sometimes you are not as clever, or as quick, as you think you are. I've seen your flirty expressions drop as soon as you get what you want and your victim turns their back. I may not have caught you doing it to me, specifically, but I'm not delusional enough to believe you haven't been."

He opened his mouth, but she didn't bother waiting to see if he was going to try to deny it. Instead, she waved a third finger in his direction. "Three, you haven't said anything obnoxious or insulting, intentional or not, and you've been here for half an hour. That's got to be some kind of record for you. You don't make a habit of watching what you say, unless you're trying to stay on someone's good side. Add those up, it is obvious that you want something from me. So spill."

He stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowed as he carefully observed her. Even after all this time he was still clearly unused to the new and improved Molly Hooper. The one who spoke her mind and didn't stutter just because he'd paid her a little attention. "Is it so inconceivable that I might simply want to check in on a . . . a dear friend?"

"Thank you. And yes."

Sherlock looked around the room, gaze flitting everywhere but at her, as he considered it. After an uncomfortably long moment, he conceded her point. 

"Mycroft has requested my presence on his behalf for a formal gathering at the country estate of Mr and Mrs Abraham Barrett. In Wantage, Oxfordshire, of all places. I hate the countryside. Nothing to do until someone manages to get themselves murdered. And even then, it's rarely more than a three or four at best. Dull. Unless there's a hound involved, that one was intriguing. Anyway, I'll need a plus one, otherwise I'll be inundated with eager bachelorettes hoping to snag 'Shag-a-lot Holmes'."

His lip curled in distaste as he grumbled, "Thank you very much for that, Janine. May your cottage end up infested with bees."

Molly busied herself with removing the borrowed slide from the Sherlock's scope and returning it to the station he'd pinched it from. "There you go, take her. Problem solved."

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the tabletop, and hummed disapprovingly. "Not an option."

"I thought you two worked something out. How did Mary describe it? You get a no-pressure escort to 'boring social obligations' that you can't weasel out of; and she gets her picture in the papers as your on-again/off-again love interest, with the added bonus of a chance to meet rich, eligible men?" Molly realized she sounded a tad catty about the whole thing. She would have to work on that before someone brought up the topic of Janine again. 

"We did. And she was successful. But they're also invited to the party. He's the jealous sort, according to Janine. Been wining and dining her nearly every evening for the last two weeks; so I very much doubt he'd appreciate my borrowing her for the night. Although I did consider asking. I believe tonight they'll be at some expensive hotel, as it is their one month anniversary, or some other equally inane nonsense. I don't know, I stopped listening fairly early in the conversation."

He started to reach for a batch of test tubes that someone had carelessly left out, and Molly reflexively slapped his hand away. They both froze; her with a look of horror on her face, him with an expression of surprise mixed with something she couldn't quite name.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he left the test tubes alone. "Having not met the man, I can't be one hundred percent certain, but I feel there is a high probability of a celebratory gift--a minimum of two carats--followed by three more weeks of domestic bliss, give or take two days. Then his jealousy and insecurities, coupled with her independent nature, penchant for drama, and vengeful streak will lead to a rather spectacular and well publicized break-up."

Molly blinked and wondered, not for the first time, how he managed to vomit out so many words in one breath like that.

"Be that as it may, no. Find someone else." She thought about it for a second, then offered an alternative. "Ask Mary."

"I considered that option as well. She's very good at reading people and has above average observational skills. She'd be an excellent choice. But then John would want to come along; and that would give people even more ideas about the nature of our relationship. Not that I have a problem with people thinking that sort of thing, but John seems to. I'd almost certainly start getting male undergarments in the mail in addition to the usual assortment of knickers and obscene propositions. Mrs Hudson already complains enough about having to dispose of such things. I can't be bothered and she insists I'm not allowed to throw the whole lot into the fireplace anymore. You melt one pair of incredibly cheap nylon panties-"

"Right. Ask Mrs Hudson then."

He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. 

Perhaps she had, because she could feel her resolve beginning to waiver. "I'm busy."

Sherlock frowned and ran his gaze over her from head to toe. When he glanced at her hands, which were anxiously twisting together, she froze. His eyes darted back up to her face, and she got the impression he'd deduced something. Something she probably didn't want him to know, although she hadn't a clue what that could be.

"You didn't even ask what day it is." 

"Fine. What day, then?" Molly huffed, crossing her arms to keep her hands from fidgeting.

"Saturday."

Her smile wasn't nearly as confident as she would have liked, but she gave it her best shot anyway. "Pity. I'm busy on Saturday," she bluffed.

His smile, however, had all the confidence hers lacked. "No, you aren't."

Molly folded. Her shoulders slumped and she looked utterly resolved to her fate. She never had been any good at lying, not unless it involved keeping a not-so-dead man's secret (and even then she'd been forced to avoid their mutual acquaintances as much as possible). "No, I'm not. Damn it. I know I'm going to regret this, I can already tell."

She took a deep breath and straightened her spine. "Is there suggested attire? Or are you planning to bring me something from Mrs Hudson's wardrobe again?"

He dismissively waved his hand in the air. "Black tie, formal gown. I'll take care of it. You don't own anything appropriate." He grinned, clearly pleased about getting his own way.

"I'm not going to let you buy me a dress, Sherlock."

Somehow his grin managed to grow even larger. It was beginning to make her nervous, causing her to wonder what devious thoughts were forming in that strange mind of his. 

"I'm not. Mycroft will. Consider it part of his repayment for being such an utter arse."

_Fair enough._

He reached up to tighten his scarf, clearly ready to leave, and Molly put her hand out to stop him. "Wait. What, exactly, am I expected to do at this thing? I'm assuming there's no bartender to distract this time. Or should I stuff a coaster in my clutch, just in case?"

Sherlock stopped fiddling with his scarf and narrowed his eyes in warning, visibly annoyed with her sarcasm. "Stay by my side. Engage in the usual pointless social customs with the other guests so I won't have to. Make excuses for my behaviour, if necessary. Honestly, we both know it will be necessary. Fend off any admirers. That sort of thing."

She nodded in understanding. "Right. Show up, run interference for the egotistical detective, and defend his virtue from the naughty ladies who are dying to slip their numbers into his pocket. Got it."

His eyes narrowed again, and she had to fight to hide her smile. She wasn't very successful. 

"Essentially, yes."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

"Hey, Molls! You're up!"

Molly groaned under her breath, and wiped the sweat off her forehead with a towel. She held up one finger to let Meena know she'd heard and gulped down several mouthfuls of cool water. Once her water bottle was capped, she joined her friend at the front of the small classroom.

"All right, ladies, everybody partner up, and we'll put what I taught you before the break to good use."

Meena waited until everyone had broken into pairs to turn and face Molly. "Okay, Molls. You ready?"

Molly nodded, even though she was anything but. She'd been regretting agreeing to fill in for Meena's usual teaching partner almost since the moment the self defence class had begun. Barely an hour into the two hour session and her body was already aching. Molly was no stranger to Meena's classes, she'd attended plenty over the years, but she'd only been called on to help demonstrate a small handful of times.

"Come get me." Meena grinned playfully and Molly couldn't help doing the same.

An hour later Attacker Molly had been disarmed numerous times, incapacitated with several simulated groin assaults, had her nose "broken" twice, and ended up flat on her back once when Meena managed to flip her (technically not part of the curriculum, but Meena always did like to show off and Molly had been game for it).

The students filed out of the room, excitedly chattering about what they'd learned and whether or not to stop for a frozen coffee and a biscuit on the way home. 

Molly gingerly patted her bum and wondered if there would be a bruise there in the morning. 

"Thanks again for filling in tonight." Meena continued to put the room to rights, wiping down the cushioned mats that had dotted the floor and looking for forgotten towels. "Sarah's mother-in-law came into the city unexpectedly, she had to cancel at the last minute."

"I told you it was no problem. You know me, always willing to help a friend in need," Molly joked.

Meena stacked the last of the mats into a tidy pile, and turned to study Molly with an uncharacteristically serious expression on her face. "Who's there to help you out when you need it, though? Well, me, obviously, because I'm a freakin' Mother Teresa in platform heels." She and Molly shared playful smiles. "But you never really ask me for anything, do you?"

Molly shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. "I don't really need anything."

She saw the pitying look Meena gave her and rolled her eyes. "It's true. I've got an interesting job, a nice flat, and friends I adore. One of whom is going to take me out to dinner tonight because she feels guilty for tossing me on the floor earlier. To a decent place, not just to the chips vendor up the block."

Meena laughed, and shooed Molly out of the room. "Fine. Let's get cleaned up, and I'll take you to a Greek place a few blocks from here. They have a moussaka to die for."

"See, what else could I possibly ask for?"

Meena laughed again, and Molly trailed after her toward the locker room.

_What else indeed?_

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

After sleeping in until nearly ten, Molly puttered about her flat until early afternoon. She'd enjoyed a leisurely soak in the tub after getting home from Meena's class the night before, but her body still ached and the extra time lounging about in bed had felt nice.

She wrote her shopping list, double checked Toby's food dish, then slipped on her jacket for a walk to the grocer.

It took her two blocks to realize she was being followed. 

She'd stopped to look at a pair of gorgeous heels in a shop window--Far too expensive for her to afford, but she couldn't help wondering how they would look with an equally expensive dress floating around her ankles as Sherlock whirled her around a dance floor. Would there even be dancing at the party he'd talked her into attending?--and noticed the black Mercedes with its ominously tinted windows that had slowed to a near stop behind her.

When she moved on Molly kept an eye on the vehicle's reflection in the next few windows; not daring to look at the car directly because she didn't want to feel like an idiot if her suspicions were wrong. 

Which they probably were, because why would a Mercedes be creeping down the street just to stalk her? That would be crazy.

Molly tried to laugh at herself, but couldn't manage more than a sickly chuckle (that sounded vaguely like a quiet sob to her ears) as the car pulled up to the kerb next to her and stopped.

The driver's door opened and a large gentleman in a suit stepped out. She was forced to admit she was probably in trouble when he called her name. "Miss Hooper."

Sherlock's voice echoed in her ears, telling her to pay attention to every detail she could register. She noted the gentleman's suit (Black? Navy blue? Obviously expensive. Fit too well to be off the rack.) and as many physical characteristics (Bald. Tan. Not traditionally handsome, but still striking. Big ears. Small nose.) as she could. 

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she could hear the rush of blood in her ears.

The burly gentleman pulled the back car door open and gestured for her to get in. The car interior was shrouded in shadows, and she couldn't see a thing from where she stood. She no intention of getting any closer. Jim Moriarty, or someone who was using his face, was still out there somewhere, and she wasn't an idiot.

"Get in, Miss Hooper."

Molly shook her head, and took a step farther away. "I don't think so."

She could see him tense as if he were preparing to chase her down if she decided to bolt. "Get in."

Somehow he was growing more menacing with every passing second, without doing anything overtly threatening. After a brief standoff--him still holding the door open, and her still shifting her weight to her toes in preparation to flee--he held a hand up to his ear, then hissed through clenched teeth, "Please."

The absurdity of the whole thing was starting to get to her. She snorted hard through her nose and shook her head again. "No. Thank you."

Something shifted in the darkness inside the car, then an extremely attractive dark-haired woman leaned into view. Her smile was probably meant to be reassuring, but it did nothing to put Molly at ease. "Hello, Miss Hooper. Mr Holmes would like a word, if you please."

Molly continued to hesitate. Strangely enough, the woman's smile seemed to grow warmer at that. She glanced down at the phone in her hand and softly laughed. "I'm to tell you that 'the rat bastard has been dealt with'."

In spite of the situation, Molly started to smile in return. The woman drew herself back into the car, and the cranky gentleman gestured toward the open door once more. This time Molly slipped past him and settled into the seat next to the attractive brunette. She managed not to flinch as the car door slammed shut. The car tilted and then settled as the driver got back behind the wheel.

It only took a minute or two for Molly to begin to feel uncomfortable. Her companion had been glued to her phone since Molly got in. Her thumbs danced across the screen in constant motion, and Molly was fairly positive she hadn't looked up since the car had begun to move.

Another few minutes passed, and Molly realized she had no clue where they were taking her. Not to Baker Street, that much she could rule out. That was when she realized the other woman had never mentioned _which_ Mr Holmes wanted to speak to her.

She cleared her throat, and turned in the seat to get a better look at the woman. "We're not going to see Sherlock, are we?"

"No," the other woman replied. She continued to text on her phone, not even bothering to look up; but at least she didn't even try to lie about it.

"Mycroft, then?"

Her companion's lips tilted upward at the name, her entire face softening for just a moment. "Yes."

"And I don't suppose you're going to tell what this is about?"

"No." She finally looked up and offered that not-quite reassuring smile again. "Sorry."

"Right," Molly muttered under her breath. She turned her attention back to the view. Soon enough she no longer recognized any of the neighbourhoods they were passing through. Eventually, they pulled up in front of a nondescript building, and the driver quickly hopped out to open the car door.

She and the other woman climbed out, and Molly stopped to offer a slightly apologetic smile to the man who had frightened her earlier. He glared in return. Not that she'd been expecting anything else, really. Still, she'd tried.

"This way, please." 

She clutched her bag against her chest as she followed the woman through several halls in an empty office building. Eventually her guide stopped in front of an unmarked door and knocked. Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and entered the room, gesturing for Molly to follow her.

Molly was not surprised to see Mycroft inside, standing behind an imposing desk. He gestured toward the chair in front of it. "Miss Hooper, sit. Please."

She did as he asked. Mycroft waited until she was settled to take his own seat. He nodded toward the other woman, and she quickly crossed the room toward a large cabinet. It was the only other piece of furniture in the room aside from the desk and the two chairs, and Molly got the feeling that all of it had been brought in specifically for this meeting.

She pulled one of the drawers open and extracted a thick folder, which she brought to Mycroft. They made eye contact for a few seconds--clearly communicating without words, Molly noted, which indicated they were used to working together--then she tipped her head to Molly and left the room. If it weren't for the fact that Mycroft Holmes had even less use for sentiment and emotional attachments than Sherlock, Molly might have assumed there was something going on between him and the as-yet-unnamed woman.

"I'm sure you're wondering why you're here. Unless . . . Has Sherlock already explained?"

"Let's just assume that he hasn't." Molly was proud that she'd managed to keep her voice steady, masking any obvious verbal sign of how uneasy she was. She really hadn't the first clue what Mycroft was talking about, but she felt uncomfortable admitting that to him.

He sighed, clearly annoyed with someone. Sherlock, most likely. "Very well."

Mycroft cleared his throat, and opened the file. He took a moment to familiarize himself with the text on the first page; then began to speak, "Can you confirm that you are Margaret Erin Hooper, born on August-"

With a frown, Molly interrupted him. "You know who I am, Mycroft. You've met me before, several times."

Mycroft glared at her in response. "There is a proper way to do this, Miss Hooper."

Molly rarely bothered to correct anyone when they got her title wrong, it was almost impossible to do so without sounding pretentious or worse; but now she was annoyed, and Mycroft was insisting on behaving like a cryptic twit. "It's _Doctor_ Hooper. And do what?"

"Oh, sod it." He flipped the file closed and pushed it away in disgust, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his hands over his stomach. "You're almost as bad as John Watson. What is it about Sherlock that attracts you people?"

She's not sure if he'd just insulted her or if it had been meant as a sort of back-handed compliment; there were worse things in the world than being compared to John. Molly decided it would be best to keep quiet, and just let him get on with whatever he was attempting to do without any more impertinent comments.

"At Sherlock's request, you have been authorized a minimal degree of clearance in matters of national security, solely in regards to my brother and certain activities he may or may not be involved with at some point in the future."

Molly blinked. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Don't play slow, Doctor Hooper. It doesn't suit you."

Another back-handed compliment _and_ the grudging use of her title. It must have practically killed Mycroft. 

"It should go without saying that any information you receive in confidence shall not be passed on to any of Sherlock's other associates, baring myself, of course. This includes John Watson." He mumbled in an aside that Molly barely heard, "That man couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it, much less my brother's."

"I-uh-I wasn't really expecting something like this? And why now, all of the sudden? I don't really know what I should be saying in response."

Mycroft sighed. Molly suspected he would have rolled his eyes if that were the sort of thing Mycroft Holmes deigned to do. "Sherlock failed to make it known how vital he found your involvement in certain aspects of his work. We've since discussed it and he's made his thoughts on the matter quite clear. He insisted I expedite things to secure your clearance as quickly as possible to remedy the oversight, but surely this didn't come as a complete surprise to you?"

Before she could reply to that, Mycroft grimaced and pulled his mobile out of an inner pocket of his suit jacket. He looked at it briefly, then pasted the most unconvincing expression of contrition that Molly had ever seen onto his face. "And I've just been reminded that I owe you an apology, Miss--pardon me, Doctor--Hooper, for failing to inform you of my brother's status during his years abroad. I deeply regret that my actions caused you undue worry and stress. As part of my apology it would be my honour to offer the services of my associate in picking out a suitable gown for your upcoming soiree. At my expense, of course."

He plucked a thick stack of papers from the folder, all bound together with a large clip, and slid them across the desk toward her. "Here's a pen, if you could just sign and initial all the paperwork. Then you can inform Sherlock that I've done my part, now he needs to make sure he fulfils his end of the bargain."

Almost as if she'd been listening at the door, Mycroft's associate entered the room. As soon as the paperwork was signed and initialled in a dozen or more places, she scooped up the file and put it back in the cabinet. With a final nod toward her employer, she gestured toward the door. "If you'll follow me?"

The Mercedes was waiting outside, complete with tall, dark, and surly waiting to open the door for them. Molly thought about attempting to say something witty as she slipped past him into the car; but she suspected anything she could come up with wouldn't be half as amusing to anyone else as it would be to her. 

Mycroft's associate-- _Surely she had a name?_ \--was already engrossed in her phone, and Molly resigned herself to another long, boring ride back to . . . where, exactly? 

"I, erm, don't mean to cause a problem, but where are you taking me now? I mean, are you taking me back to my flat? Because I was on my way to do the shopping, and . . ."

The other woman sent one last text and looked up. "Mr Holmes has asked me to assist you in finding a gown, and any other necessities you may need, for this weekend. Do you have a favoured designer we can use as a starting point?"

Contrary to what Sherlock (and Mycroft, from the sounds of it) seemed to think, she wasn't a complete stranger to shopping for nice things. There just wasn't much call for a closetful of formal dresses in her line of work. She couldn't even imagine attempting a post-mortem draped in organza and tulle.

Molly floundered for a moment; her mind coming up blank for the name of any designer, much less one who produced dresses she liked that would flatter her body type. After a few moments she realized she was out of her depth. "Haven't a clue. Who would you recommend?"

The woman smiled, clearly pleased. "I know just the shop, Miss Hooper."

"Wonderful. Uh, I was wondering if you could just call me Molly? The Miss Hooper thing is really . . . unless you have to? Is that a requirement? For all this?"

The other woman seemed to study her for a moment. "As you wish, Molly."

"Thank you." Molly bit her lip, debating whether or not she should ask the question that was sitting on the tip of her tongue. "And you are?"

"You can call me Anthea." The brunette leaned forward to give the driver their new destination.

"Oh, that's unusual."

Anthea hummed in agreement, and turned back to her phone.

"Greek, isn't it? Flower, right? Or, umm, maybe blossom?" Suddenly, Molly had the other woman's attention again.

"Either way it's fitting," Molly continued. "Which it should be, since it was chosen for you specifically, I would think. Lovely compliment. Unless, did you get to pick it yourself?"

Anthea looked as if she were reassessing what she thought she knew about Molly. "You know Greek?"

Molly shrugged. "I knew a lot about the Greek pantheon. Fascinated by it when I was little. I only recognized the word because of its association with Hera."

Anthea tucked her phone into her lap. "Why did you assume it wasn't my real name?"

"Mostly, it was a hunch; but all this cloak and dagger nonsense seemed to back my theory up. If you wanted to give me your real name, you would have offered it when you first picked me up. And you didn't say 'My name is Anthea', you said that's what I could call you. Careful wording, that." Molly winced. She felt as if last bit could have come straight from Sherlock.

"Interesting. You're nothing at all like I expected you'd be."

"Is that good or bad?" And more importantly, why would Anthea have any expectations about her in the first place?

"It's merely interesting, that's all." Anthea leaned back in the seat and gracefully crossed her legs. Molly envied her, she always felt like an awkward teenager who barely had control of her limbs. "Tell me, Molly, this dress; would you prefer to blend in to the background like the wallpaper, or be the envy of every woman in the room?"

Her first instinct was to blend in. She'd never been terribly comfortable as the centre of attention. Still, when would she have a chance to go to a posh event such as this again? Especially on someone else's tab.

"What would you do?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Molly was taking advantage of the fact that there was nothing pressing to be done in the morgue to catch up on some work in the lab, when the door swung open with far more force than necessary. Even without looking up from her microscope, she knew who her visitor was.

John was right, Sherlock really was a drama queen.

She changed the magnification on the scope, and scribbled a note regarding the bacteria movement in the sample on the slide.

Molly could almost feel Sherlock growing increasingly restless the longer she ignored him. Politeness dictated that she should acknowledge him and find out what he wanted, since it was obvious that he was there for something; otherwise, he would already be at his favoured microscope, ignoring her as she was ignoring him. However, she'd spent five exhausting hours the day before, being dragged from shop to shop by Anthea (an expert marathon shopper who clearly had no qualms about spending Mycroft's money) with the threat/promise of a salon visit before the event on Saturday. Therefore, politeness could go hang.

Her feet still ached. 

Just the thought of wearing the four inch heels Anthea had insisted on purchasing made her toes curl in anticipated discomfort. She was going to have to spend the rest of the week practicing walking if there was to be any hope of not falling flat on her face at the party.

She heard him clear his throat as she removed the current slide and tucked it into the proper container.

"Molly."

She briefly looked up as she reached for the next sample. "Sherlock."

He was once again standing very straight and tall, hands behind his back in that way that usually signalled he was uncomfortable about something. This did not bode well for her. Not at all.

Molly frowned and placed the slide into the scope, leaning closer to the eye piece. "Two visits in the same week. Don't I feel special."

"Pardon?"

She sighed. "I've already got a dress. Everything's taken care of, all of it's been vetted and given the official Office of Mycroft Holmes approval. No need to worry that I'll be an embarrassment or anything." She refused to mention her fear of tripping in the too-tall-for-her heels.

"That's . . . reassuring?"

Rather than wander off as she'd secretly hoped he would, Sherlock continued to stand there. Looming. Far too close for her comfort. Molly began to fidget. She hated when he made her do that.

It didn't take long for her to break. "What? What is it? What do you want?" Whatever it was couldn't be good. 

"Is that a new jumper? The colour goes very well with your . . . eyes?"

"Oh, come on!" Molly pushed herself away from the table, twisting on her stool to glare up at him. "Seriously, Sherlock? It goes well with my eyes? You couldn't even see my jumper, I'm wearing a lab coat and was bent over a microscope. I'm not an idiot. Stop, just stop with the fake compliments. If you can't say something sincere, then don't bother saying anything at all."

She paused to take a deep breath and calm herself before continuing. "You already know I would do anything for you-"

_I already have. And it nearly broke me._

"Anything truly important," she quickly qualified. Her expression was soft and imploring, silently willing him to understand how much it bothered her when he used her unrequited feelings against her. 

_Former feelings. Oh fuck it. I'm not even fooling myself anymore, am I?_

Sherlock was still except for the way his gaze darted around the room, as if he were searching for something--anything--that might salvage the moment. After a few seconds he swallowed hard, then determinedly lifted his chin. He cautiously moved a few steps closer, and Molly braced herself for whatever was about to come pouring out of his mouth. 

"I read your monograph on identifying abnormalities in kidney function. It was extremely informative, and I've retained a copy for my research database."

Molly blinked several times. That . . . was not the sort of thing she was expecting him to say. His praise seemed sincere this time, and she couldn't help but find it a little flattering. Her head tilted slightly to the side, her lips twitching into the beginning of a sweet smile. "Thank-thank you."

Sherlock's lips mirrored her own. 

Their eyes met. Molly's breath caught, and her face felt uncomfortably warm. Something in her expression must have made him uneasy because his smile melted away, and he took a small step back. Just far enough to make it clear to Molly that he wasn't comfortable with their silent exchange.

"I need a favour."

"Never doubted it for a second." It was a testament to how long she'd known Sherlock that she wasn't offended. The inner warmth produced from his earlier words was still there, and Molly wasn't going to let him dampen it just because he was being . . . well, Sherlock. She returned to her work at the microscope, then wrote a notation on the papers next to her station. "What is it this time?"

"First, I would like to point out that I can see the cuff of your jumper sticking out of the sleeve of your lab coat quite clearly. From there it was extremely easy to deduce that the colour-"

"Sherlock," Molly growled.

"Right. Moving along, then. Janine needs a place to stay."

"Janine has a place to stay. She's got several, from what I've read. She's still got a place in London, yeah? And the cottage you cursed with a bee infestation. Then there's your flat-"

Sherlock impatiently interrupted her, "She can't stay there anymore."

That drew Molly's full attention. She looked up again, resigned to abandoning her work until Sherlock left, and swivelled on her stool so that she could face him entirely. "I thought you two worked things out. Unless . . . Do you think she's really that desperate that she's going to chase you around Baker Street, trying to seduce you?" 

She covered up the spike of unease born of that unsettling idea with a feigned look of amusement.

"What do you mean 'that desperate'? I'm a very good catch, according to the gossip rags. A 'sex god'." Sherlock bit off the last two words with obvious disgust.

"For some poor unfortunate soul who hasn't spent more than thirty minutes in your company, perhaps."

Sherlock glared, and Molly grinned in response.

"You're starting to sound an awful lot like John, you know."

"Thank you." 

The glare faltered as Sherlock's expression morphed into one of mild confusion. "That wasn't meant as a compliment."

"I didn't think it was." Molly began to swing her feet back and forth. Thanks to her short legs and the tall stool, they didn't quite reach the ground. She was starting to enjoy herself now, and couldn't keep still. "You were going to tell me why she can't stay at your place?"

"Was I?"

She shrugged as if she didn't care one way or another. "Probably."

Rather stiffly, Sherlock focused his gaze somewhere in the vicinity of her forehead; nearly, but not quite, making eye contact. "It has recently come to my attention that Mrs Hudson does not like her."

Molly's eyes widened, and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing. She tried very hard to force her face to go completely expressionless. Realizing that was a lost cause, she turned to pull the slide out of the microscope and put it back in its storage container in a futile attempt to keep Sherlock from deducing just how amused she was.

"But you already knew that, didn't you?" He bent forward, leaning into her space, putting his hand on the table next to her scope. "Don't bother trying to deny it, your body language gave you away. Why didn't you tell me?"

The urge to shift the last few inches closer to him, to see if his scent was still the same as the one that had lingered on his pillows the night she'd slept in his bed, was strong. Molly slid off the stool, taking the box of bacteria slides to a nearby cupboard to be dealt with later. Once she was safely out temptation's reach, she turned to lean against the cupboard and smirked. 

"Why would I? And when could I have possibly brought it up? By the time I found out, you two had broken up and were already doing whatever it is that you're doing now. Should I have said, 'Oh, by the way, Sherlock, your landlady can't stand your not-quite-ex-girlfriend, so maybe don't invite her over for dinner?' I'm sure that would have gone over fabulously."

He had straightened and watched her retreat with a calculating eye. Once she'd stopped moving, he eased his way around the recently vacated stool and stalked toward her like some sort of predatory cat. Molly shifted, felt the bite of the cupboard handle digging into her lower back, and began to realize she might have made a tactical error.

"Well, you may have already been aware, but no one bothered to inform me until Mrs Hudson brought up my tea this morning and adamantly refused to bring up a second cup for Janine. There was a bit of a row, the tea pot got dumped, Janine stormed off in a huff, Mrs Hudson disappeared into her flat with a slammed door, and--most importantly--I didn't. Get. My. Tea." Sherlock looked like a sullen little boy who had lost his favourite toy.

Molly wasn't terribly moved by his plight. "Oh, you poor baby. You have your own kitchen and a kettle. You can make your own cuppa."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Clearly he was not amused by her teasing. He continued to close the distance between them, his steps measured and unhurried. 

She thought about making a break for it, perhaps attempting to dart past him toward the door; but then she'd look like a fool, making a big deal out of something silly. It wasn't as if Sherlock were going to pounce on her. 

At the very worst, he would get close enough to turn the full effect of his devastatingly gorgeous eyes upon her.

He stopped almost directly in front of her, close enough that his Belstaff brushed against her lab coat. "That is not the point, Molly."

She swallowed and forced herself to meet his gaze, as if his nearness weren't making her itch to reach out and see if his shirt was as soft as it looked. "So why isn't she staying at her cottage?"

He smirked, and she had the horrible suspicion that he knew exactly what she'd been thinking. "She's broken up with her boyfriend-"

"Mr Jealous Two-Carats?"

"Stop interrupting. And it was two-and-a-half. I underestimated the monetary value he put on potential intimate relations with her."

"I wouldn't let Janine hear you say that." 

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"Because you just made her sound like a prostitute," Molly explained, speaking slowly as if she were talking to a particularly dim individual. For a second she pictured Anderson's newest replacement at NSY. That man was an imbecile, and she only hoped she'd be around to witness the first time Sherlock had to work with him. 

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "No, I meant why would I say that to _her_?"

She mentally awarded a point to Sherlock for unexpectedly demonstrating some tact.

"I don't know. I still don't understand why you do half the things you do." Molly shrugged. "So she's broken up with the rich boyfriend, and that means she can't stay at her own home because . . .?"

"Apparently, he's having difficulty accepting it. She said he's showed up at her door every night since she broke things off, demanding she come back."

That did seem a little weird and clingy. Molly wasn't sure it was enough to warrant moving into someone else's home, but then again she hadn't a clue how obnoxious Janine's ex was acting. For all she knew, the man was insisting on standing outside Janine's bedroom window with an eighties' era boombox, playing Peter Gabriel songs loud enough to annoy the neighbours.  
Still, she didn't see what any of that had to do with her.

"She was Mary's maid of honour. Send her over to stay with Mary and John."

"I did consider it, but Mary isn't too keen on having her around right now. A bit of a guilty conscience, I suspect."

"What for? Introducing her to you?" Molly grinned, rather pleased with herself for coming up with that. 

Sherlock twitched. She wasn't sure if it was a reaction to her juvenile (but humorous) wit, or something else. He leaned closer, resting one of his hands against the cupboard near her head. "Let's just not talk about that, shall we? Especially to Janine. I'm given to understand that some women with her type of temperament tend to overreact to certain things. Considering this morning's tea fiasco, I believe it would be best to never mention the idea again."

He was using his proximity to try to distract her, she knew him well enough to recognize that much. Unfortunately for her, it was working. He was close enough for his scent to surround her, and it _was_ the same as the one that haunted her dreams. 

God, he smelled good.

Molly swallowed, wet her suddenly dry lips, and forced herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. "Why are you telling me any of this?"

His earlier frown reappeared. Sherlock blinked several times in rapid succession before pushing himself away from the cupboard. 

Suddenly, Molly could breathe freely again.

"I thought I'd made that clear. Janine needs a place to stay for a few days."

Molly crossed her arms and kept her mouth shut, silently prompting him to get to the point.

"Your place."

"Nope." She shook her head, and tried to scoot past him. 

Both of his hands shot up to press against the cupboard on either side of her shoulders, effectively cutting off her escape. "Why not?"

Trapped, Molly went on the defensive. "Because I said no. Because I barely know her; you're the only thing we've even got in common as far as I'm aware. Because even though I tell everyone that when you stay at my place you sleep in the spare room-"

"That's not what you tell everyone," he cut in, giving her a look that made it clear he knew she'd spilled the beans at least once. It wasn't as if Mary hadn't already suspected anyway. 

"Nearly everyone. I may tell people you sleep in the spare room so that I don't have to admit I'm such a pushover that I let you con me out of my own bed, but we both know that I don't actually _have_ a spare room. And finally, because I said no." She lifted her arms to plant her palms against his chest and pushed.

He didn't budge.

"You already said that."

"It bears repeating."

She stared at her hands, the nails dragging against the super soft material of his shirt as she curled her fingers. Molly could feel the firmness of his chest, the slight flex of his pectorals under her touch. What she wouldn't give to pop open some of those buttons.

"You're not going to help me?"

Somehow she dragged her attention back to the conversation. "I'm not going to help Janine. There's a difference."

"But, Molly-"

She pushed again, digging her nails in a bit this time, and he took a step back. "You can't just dump your unwanted girlfriends at my door, Sherlock. It doesn't work that way."

"I'll owe you."

Molly took her chance and skirted past him. "You already owe me. And I haven't heard word one in regards to paying me back. Or did you forget?" Once she was safely in the middle of the room she turned to look at him.

He was rubbing his chest with a puzzled expression on his face. As soon as he realized she was watching him he dropped his hand. Sherlock approached her, cautiously this time, keeping some distance between them. He looked almost as unsettled as she felt. "She may be in danger, Molly."

"What do you mean?"

"By the time I got a chance to meet him, they were already dating and I was too distracted by a case to pick up on some things that are glaringly obvious in hindsight. He was too sweet, too solicitous, too . . . perfect." He bit off that last word with a sneer. "I'm positive there's something he's hiding, something in his past. I've sent feelers out, looking for information regarding his last few girlfriends, but they're coming up with nothing. You don't get silence like that without paying for it, one way or another."

She gasped. "Do you think he killed some of them?"

"I doubt it's anything that extreme. But I'm certain he's done something to them. Why else would he pay them off to remain silent. There are no stories, no torrid gossip, no bragging. Women in his circles don't just fade away without a bitter scene and a spiteful last word. No, something's going on. I just haven't deduced what, yet, and until I do . . ." He trailed off and gave her a pleading look that rarely failed to tug at her heart. Not to mention her growing concern for a woman she'd never really met.

She knew she was being played as if she was Sherlock's violin, but she still sighed and gave in. "Fine. But she's on the sofa, I'm not giving up my bed for her."

Sherlock smiled; although it wasn't his usual 'I go what I wanted' grin, thankfully. She might have changed her mind if he'd done that.

He slowly leaned forward, giving her time to step back if she wanted, and pressed his lips against her cheek in a soft, barely-there kiss. "Thank you."

Molly swallowed hard and nodded, unable to force words past the sudden tightness in her throat.

She stood there until the lab door closed behind his retreating form, then slumped against the nearest work surface. "What have you got yourself into this time, Molly Hooper?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Unfortunately, that left her with plenty of time to reflect on Sherlock's visit.

Specifically, the way he'd corned her against the cupboard and the feel of his firm chest beneath her hands. That memory was probably going to make several reappearances in her dreams over the next few months.

She shook her head as she unlocked the door to her flat, and told herself that she really needed to move on. For real this time. Not just telling people she was over him and then feeling her stomach drop to her feet in excitement the moment she thought he was going to ask her to dinner. She'd even forgotten about Tom for a few seconds that day, which should have been a huge red flag that she had unresolved Sherlock issues.

And that meant she needed to stop sit around making moon eyes at him, moping about what could never be. 

Mind resolved to go ahead and let Meena fix her up with yet another "this one is _the_ one" date, Molly pushed open her door and stopped dead at the sight of the man in question sitting on her sofa.

His feet were on her coffee table, and he was typing away on the laptop resting on his thighs. Toby, the traitor, was curled into a contented ball against his hip.

The smell of something heavenly emanated from her small galley kitchen.

She blinked several times, unable to find the right words to express just how flabbergasted she was at the nerve of him, letting himself in as if he had the right. After a moment, Molly stepped into her flat and carefully shut the door behind her. She hung up her jacket, then approached the sofa in a deceptively calm manner that should have put Sherlock on high alert. Would have, if he'd been paying her the least bit of attention.

"What are you doing here?" she quietly asked.

Sherlock didn't bother looking up from the laptop screen. His fingers continued to dance across the keyboard, occasionally hitting the enter key with aggressive force. "Leaving scathing comments on John's blog. He's got several incidental details wrong regarding the Pushman case. Obviously he doesn't care about accuracy, or even plausibility. Did you see that he wrote-"

"I don't care what he wrote," Molly snapped. "I meant, what are you doing _here_? On my sofa. In my flat. Right now."

His fingers finally stilled. Sherlock tilted his head, looking up at her with his brow furrowed in consternation. "You should have been more specific, then. I've brought Janine over. You weren't home, and she thought it might be best if I were still here when you arrived since, as you pointed out earlier, you barely know each other."

He didn't get it. It was as if it never even occurred to him that using his emergency bolthole key to move in his ex-ish girlfriend while Molly wasn't even home might annoy her. He hadn't even given her a chance to clean up, who knew what state the bathroom was in?

And then there was the matter of the familiar looking computer he was using.

"Is that my laptop?"

"Yes." 

"My password protected, kept on the table in my bedroom where you shouldn't have even been nosing about in the first place, laptop?"

"Yes." She could tell by the expression on his face that he thought she was being overly pedantic.

Molly threw her hands up into the air in surrender. "Of course it is, how silly of me to even question it."

Sherlock typed a few more words, hit send, and softly closed the computer. Perhaps it was the irritated tapping of her foot, or maybe the way her hands had curled into fists at her side; whatever it was, something had finally clued the great Consulting Detective into deducing that she was upset.

Before he could open his mouth and make things worse, someone else spoke. "I thought I heard voices."

Molly swung around to find Janine exiting the kitchen. She crossed the small sitting room to offer her hand to Molly. "Hello. I don't think we've actually been properly introduced. Just a brief hello at Mary and John's wedding, right? I'm Janine Hawkins."

Janine's friendly smile was infectious, and Molly found herself reluctantly returning it as she shook the proffered hand. "Molly. Molly Hooper."

"It's so nice of you to let me stay here." Janine released her and used her hands to gesture around the room. "I told Sherl I didn't want to impose, and I was fine staying at his place; but he thought it would be safer if I stayed somewhere that Francis would never think to look. Then he told me how you volunteered to let me stay over when he mentioned he had a friend in need, insisted really. How could I say no?"

"How indeed." Molly's smile dropped from her lips as soon as Janine headed back toward the kitchen.

Molly silently mouthed, "You are a dead man," at the prat on the couch. Sherlock didn't even have the decency to look guilty for lying.

Janine stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned to speak again. Molly's smile quickly reappeared, although it was a bit more strained this time. "To show my appreciation, I suggested we picked up take-away for dinner. I hope that's all right?"

"That's very thoughtful of you."

"I thought about picking something up from the Indian place I saw near the Boots, but Sherl said you prefer the chicken tikka masala from the restaurant several streets over. He figured you'd be home soon, so I was just looking for plates to dish it up."

Molly shouldn't have been surprised that he'd noticed her take-away preference--deduced it, she supposed--at one point, but she thought it would have been one of the insignificant things he'd deleted by now.

"That sounds great, actually. Thank you." She took a deep breath, and reminded herself that what was done was done, and there really wasn't anything she could do about it at this point anyway. Making a fuss would only cause Janine to feel bad; and it wasn't her fault that Sherlock had a way of pushing Molly's buttons.

"Can you give me ten minutes? I need to change out of my work clothes, maybe wash up a bit?"

Janine assured her that was fine, and Sherlock was already distracted by her laptop once more. Molly doubted he'd even heard her.

Fifteen minutes later, Molly had taken a quick shower and changed into a brightly coloured tee and an old pair of jeans. She skipped putting on shoes, settling for a pair of thick, warm socks that were covered in playful kittens. Her eyes had been itching and burning since late afternoon, so she put her contacts away to soak for the night and slipped on her glasses. It was her flat, there was no reason she shouldn't feel comfortable just because Sherlock's extremely pretty and (irritatingly) pleasant former girlfriend was in her kitchen. Even as she told herself that, she couldn't help comparing her appearance in the mirror to Janine.

_Ugh, pity party, table for one. Get over it, Molly. This isn't a competition. Sherlock doesn't care what you look like, he's never cared, and he has seen you looking much, much worse._

She remembered the night he'd let himself in while she'd been lounging around the sitting room watching _Big Brother_ , face covered in an avocado skin mask, hair in a sloppy pony tail, wearing a ratty cotton night shirt and a pair of bunny slippers that had bore the brunt of Toby's hunting instincts. They'd stared at each other for exactly five seconds before Molly had scrambled up off the sofa and bolted to the bedroom to scrub her face and find her bathrobe.

Molly shook off the humiliating memory and went to find Janine and Sherlock.

The sitting room was empty as she walked through it on the way to her tiny kitchen, but Janine was the only one sitting at her small table. The other woman pointed her fork toward the microwave. "Yours is in there, in case you wanted to heat it up. I didn't want it to get cold. I bet you're wondering where Sherl is, aren't you?"

"Did he leave already?" Molly started to warm up her dinner.

"Said he needed to check in with someone, but he'd be back in a bit. Which could mean ten minutes or tomorrow with him." 

"Yeah, he loses track of time. Easily distracted when he's chasing down a lead," Molly offered in his defence. She felt a little ridiculous, even as the words left her mouth. Janine had been intimately familiar with Sherlock's habits, of course she already knew that. Molly slid into the other chair and shoved a forkful of food into her mouth.

"Don't I know it. He was always doing that to me when we were dating. Telling me he needed to go check on something, he'd be back in awhile, don't wait up, all of that. Sometimes he wouldn't even come home until I was already up and getting ready to leave in the morning." Janine shook her head and laughed; but it wasn't a pleasant sound, it was short and bitter. "I get it now. But it would have been nice to know why it seemed like he was avoiding me sometimes. You know?"

Molly nodded and tried to look as sympathetic as possible. On the one hand, she really did know what it was like when Sherlock abandoned you for something he considered more interesting. On the other, some of those nights when he'd run off from Janine, he was staying in Molly's bedroom. Which was something Molly had no intention of mentioning. Ever. 

On the other-other hand, even with him running off to one or another bolthole (or Molly's bedroom) when he needed to think, he still opened up to Janine, right? Did romantic things with her. Kissed and touched her. He had to care about her; the lengths he was going to in order to keep her away from Mr Jealous Two-and-a-Half Carats was proof of that.

"I can't believe how pathetic I was. I mean, I actually thought his proposal must have meant he loved me. Well, up until someone knocked me unconscious minutes later; then I woke up to find out he'd been shot, and it had all been for one of his stupid, bloody cases." Janine shifted the curry and rice around her plate with her fork before taking a bite.

Molly nearly choked on hers. She took a long drink of water to clear her throat. Once she could breathe normally, she asked, "I'm sorry. He did what?"

"I know! What kind of arsehole does that? More water?" Without waiting for an answer, Janine dropped her fork and got up to refill Molly's glass. "Anyway, we're fine now. Better, actually. We're both completely honest about what we want out of our relationship this time."

Molly was still stuck on the casually mentioned proposal thing. "I hadn't realized that Sherlock had, uhm, done that."

"Asked me to marry him? I decided not to mention it in any of my interviews. Would have made me seem like a right idiot, wouldn't it? I am surprised he hadn't told you, though."

"Why would he have told me?" She'd been starving earlier, but Molly wasn't sure if she was even hungry anymore.

"You're friends." Janine made it sound as if that should have explained everything. 

It didn't.

"Sherl told me he didn't have too many of those, but the ones he's managed to keep from chasing off seem to be rather close-knit," Janine tried to explain in response to Molly's continued confusion. "And you're obviously close enough for him to have a key to your flat." She shrugged and plopped back down into her chair, somehow managing to make even that look graceful.

"He ended up doing me a favour. I got fired, yeah, but my boss at the time was a real jerk. Although, I suppose, I shouldn't speak ill of the dead." Seeing Molly's confused expression, Janine explained, "Went and got himself killed confronting a burglar, from what I'd read in the papers. Right around Christmas. To be honest, I can't say that I mourned him."

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh God, I sound like a horrible person, don't I?"

"I wouldn't say horrible, just honest." Molly stood, and pulled a plastic container out of one of the kitchen cupboards. She started to dump her leftovers into it; perhaps she could take it to work for lunch the next day.

Janine watched her work for a moment, then got up to deal with her own plate. "Speaking of being honest . . ."

Molly couldn't even begin to imagine what new bit of information the other woman was going to share next. "Yeah?"

"You didn't really volunteer to have me stay here, did you?"

Molly whipped around, guilt written all over her face. "How did you-I mean, what makes you say that?"

"Your expression earlier, when I was thanking you. You don't have much of a poker face, do you?" 

Molly flushed and shook her head. 

Janine laughed. "Sherl's got a way of talking us into things, doesn't he? Charming as the devil himself when he wants to be."

"You, too?" Molly's shoulders slumped as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Oh yeah. Talked me into coming here. I really was fine with a hotel or Baker Street, but he convinced me this was going to be safer. Mentioned I'd probably get along better with you than I would him, in the long run. And, just between you and me, I don't think his housekeeper likes me." 

The front door opened. Sherlock called out both of their names as he crossed the sitting room, before stepping into the kitchen doorway. His eyes flicked back and forth between both women, and he suddenly looked uncomfortable. "What are you two doing?"

"Having dinner. Or, we were, at any rate. Do you want something to eat?" Janine offered.

"No, I don't eat when I'm on a case, I just came back to-" He froze mid-sentence and stared at Molly as if he'd never seen her before.

She reached up to wipe her mouth with her fingers. "What? Do I have curry on my face?"

"You're wearing glasses. You don't wear glasses. Since when do you wear glasses?"

"Since secondary school." She turned away to finish packing up the last of her meal, then gestured for Sherlock to take a step back so she could open the refrigerator door. "You've seen me in them before."

"No, I haven't."

Molly rolled her eyes and shared an amused look with Janine. "First time we met. You walked into the morgue as if you owned the place, insisted I let you inspect the body of a murder victim that had just come in for processing, and told me to get contacts because my glasses did nothing to improve my appearance. Or my self esteem. You also told me the forensics consultant from NSY that I'd been speaking to when you blew in was married, and I could probably do better."

"That's you, all right," Janine tossed in.

"Was it Anderson? Of course you could do better than Anderson."

"I would have kicked him out," Molly continued for Janine's benefit, "but Greg was with him." 

She noticed Sherlock's blank look and sighed. "Lestrade. He was with you, and he assured me he would take full responsibility if you damaged anything."

"You wouldn't have thrown me out." Sherlock was quite confident in his statement. 

He was probably right, but he didn't need her to confirm it. His ego was big enough as it was. "I might have done. You don't know."

With a gentle push, Sherlock closed the fridge door that had been separating them and moved closer to her. Molly's breath caught as she was forced to look up to maintain eye contact. Once again he was close enough to touch, to kiss if only she had the courage. Those beautiful, unique eyes of his were beginning to darken, the pupils dilating. He leaned down--just until she could feel the heat of his breath against her ear--as he softly spoke, "Not back then. You wouldn't have dared. Now? Perhaps. You've changed since we first met, Molly Hooper. Not at all the meek mouse you used to be. I find that I quite like the woman you've become."

With that parting remark, he disappeared into the sitting room; leaving Molly and Janine to stare at each other in wide-eyed disbelief. 

"Well, that was unexpected." Janine managed to find her voice first.

"For you and me both," Molly replied.

"Really? He's never?"

Molly shook her head, still feeling a bit befuddled. "Yeah. But not really? I mean he's been a little flirty a few times, but he doesn't mean it. He never means it."

"I don't know whether to be happy for you or not, sweetie, but I think he meant that one."

"Oh, but-but you and Sherlock?" Molly stuttered. 

"That ship sailed months ago." Janine reached out and squeezed Molly's hand. "He's a selfish arse, and my advice would be to run as fast as you can, but we both know that isn't going to happen. So . . . ice cream?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Having Janine around wasn't as bad as Molly had expected it to be. True it hadn't even been a full week, but so far she wasn't the worst flatmate Molly had been stuck with. She hadn't fussed when Molly had wanted to watch a sappy rom com on Wednesday night (they'd even shared a box of tissues near the end when it looked like the two lovers were never going to work things out). She offered to do the washing up when Molly cooked breakfast for the both of them Friday morning. She was telecommuting while her boss was out of town, taking over the kitchen table when it wasn't needed for meals; but she didn't leave her things strewn all over the flat while she was working (unlike a certain consulting detective). Other than the occasional niggling feeling of not quite measuring up to all things Janine, Molly had no complaints.

When Molly had nervously paced around the sitting room on Saturday afternoon--waiting for Anthea to pick her up for the promised trip to a salon for hair and makeup--Janine had gently pushed her into a chair and offered to make a calming cup of tea.

Molly had latched on to Janine's good natured concern and desperately tried to convince the other woman to take her place for the evening.

"Couldn't even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Francis will probably be there, and all of this-" She paused to gesture around the sitting room, including the pair of her suitcases near the sofa. "It would all be pointless if I were to show up and run straight into him, wouldn't it? Besides, Sherlock invited you, not me."

"Only because you were already busy. He normally asks you to do these sorts of things," Molly insisted, still trying to find a way to beg off. She was terrified she'd embarrass herself or Sherlock--or even worse, Mycroft, somehow--in front of a house full of rich dignitaries and government officials. It wasn't really her usual social set, and she highly doubted an amusing anecdote about one of her autopsies would go over well with that sort of crowd.

Who was she kidding? Those stories didn't go over well with any sort of crowd.

"He asks me because I'm convenient. We've already got past the awkward bits, and now he doesn't have to work at it like he would if we were really dating. I get a posh dinner and a chance to dress up now and then, and he doesn't have to put any effort into it."

"So, he picked me to fill in because I'm convenient and he didn't want to bother trying to find a real date then?" Yet another boost to the ego, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes.

Janine folded herself into the chair next to Molly's sofa, and wobbled her hand from side to side. "Probably, yeah; but I suspect there might have been a bit more to it than that, judging from his display in the kitchen the other night."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Before Janine could answer, there was a firm knock at the door. Molly glanced at her watch as she got up to answer it. 

Right on time. 

Not that she expected anything less from someone associated with Mycroft Holmes. He seemed to be the sort of guy who was a stickler for punctuality. 

"Anthea, this is Janine. Janine, Anthea. Now that the introductions are done, I'm going to need that tea." Molly disappeared into the kitchen before either of them could speak.

She ignored the kettle entirely, focusing her attention on the cupboard over the top of the refrigerator. There was an emergency packet of chocolate biscuits hidden at the back of that cupboard. Out of sight, out of mind for the most part. She dragged a chair in front of the fridge, and crawled onto it. Even with the extra height it was a struggle to reach all the way to the back. She had to balance on her tip toes until her fingers came in contact with the crinkly packaging.

The packet seemed much lighter than it should as she dragged it toward her, and once she had it in sight she realized why. 

Sherlock Bloody Holmes had been eating her biscuits. 

It had to have been him. No one else had free rein of her flat _and_ was tall enough to find the damn things without effort. She briefly considered and rejected the idea that it might have been Janine, but in her heart she knew the biscuit thief had to have been Mr I-Don't-Eat-When-I'm-On-A-Case.

She bitterly shoved one of the remaining biscuits into her mouth.

"Hey, Molly? Your friend says we need to leave if we're going to get lunch before your salon appointment." Janine appeared in the kitchen doorway, and grinned at the sight of Molly standing on a chair, holding a nearly empty packet of biscuits. "Oh hun, it's not that bad. Don't jump."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny," Molly mumbled around her half-chewed biscuit. She swallowed with some difficulty and brushed crumbs off her mouth, before guiltily shoving the packet back onto the shelf. "We? What do you mean 'we'?"

"I told her how hesitant you were about tonight, and she thought it might help to have a bit of extra moral support."

"For me, or for her?" Molly climbed down off the chair and moved it back into place at the table.

Janine laughed. "Does it really matter? Come on. Anthea says Mike's covering the tab for lunch."

"Mike?" Molly asked as she preceded Janine into the sitting room.

"Sherl's brother."

"Oh, Mycroft." Molly met Anthea's eye and had to stifle her grin at the look of distaste on the other woman's face, probably due to Janine's nickname for the elder Holmes brother.

As they stepped through the front door and Molly paused to make sure it was locked, Janine asked, "People really do call him that? I thought John was having me on."

"I'm afraid they do, Miss Hawkins." To Molly, it sounded as if Anthea were already regretting her decision to invite Janine along. Served her right.

Anthea lead the way down the stairs and out the building toward a familiar looking dark Mercedes. Mr Surly was waiting beside the car. As he opened the door for the three women, Molly saw him grimace briefly, and she knew he'd recognized her.

She flashed him her brightest, friendliest smile as she slid into the car. "Hello, again. Lovely day, isn't it?"

The car door slammed shut seconds after Janine squeezed herself into the backseat next to Molly. It was a bit of a tight fit, with all three ladies crammed together.

Janine waited until the car was in motion to point at Anthea's ever present mobile. "So, what did that thing have to say about me? I assume you were verifying it was okay to bring me along with all that texting away you were doing earlier?"

Molly looked from her temporary flatmate to Mycroft's assistant, then down to the phone in question. 

Anthea replied without bothering to pause in her texting, "Janine Hawkins. Former personal assistant for C. Magnussen, current junior personal assistant to S. Nakahara. Former relationship with S. Holmes, ended amicably, albeit publicly." She looked up and gave Janine a barely there smile. "There's more, but most of it comes from the background check that was ordered when it became apparent that you and Mr Holmes were becoming . . . intimate."

For some reason Janine started to laugh at that. Molly hadn't a clue what was so amusing. 

"Am I in there?" she asked Anthea.

A perfectly arched brow was her answer.

Molly leaned back against the seat and sighed, "Right, I knew that. Stupid question." Mycroft himself had practically waved the damn file--that most likely contained every boring detail of her rather boring life--under her nose just days prior.

"Is that why I was invited to come along on today's excursion? Because I've already been cleared to associate with the Holmes men?" Janine asked, bemused.

"One of them," Anthea corrected. She lowered her phone into her lap and turned her attention to the other two women in the vehicle. "I also thought it wouldn't hurt to have one of Molly's friends along, to help put her at ease."

Molly's first instinct was to protest that she and Janine were not friends; but that would make things awkward for everyone involved, and Janine didn't seem to mind.

"Have you seen the dress she'll be wearing tonight?" In under a minute, Anthea had managed to pull up a photo of Molly trying on the dress on her phone. Janine made suitably impressed noises, and asked about the shoes, and what Anthea was thinking of in regards to makeup and hair. Molly couldn't help but feel as if she were a bit invisible when Janine leaned around her to talk to Anthea directly.

Lunch was at a lovely (and probably incredibly expensive) restaurant, the kind that didn't bother with menus. Molly barely tasted any of it, mechanically eating whatever was put in front of her at Anthea's urging.

"You'll need to eat now, who knows what they'll be serving tonight." 

"Try to avoid anything covered in a sauce," Janine offered her own bit of advice.

"Because I may spill it on the dress?"

Anthea shook her head. "Because sauces can cover a multitude of culinary atrocities, and you don't want to get ill on the car ride home."

After lunch, they left for the salon. Molly tried once more to win Mr Surly over with her sunny disposition, and yet again he was having none of it. 

Although the door didn't get slammed shut this time, so perhaps he was starting to thaw toward her. Just a tiny bit.

Anthea and Janine took over at the salon, and for once Molly was happy to let them. She hadn't a clue what shade of nail polish or eye shadow would best compliment her hair and skin tone. She routinely chose comfort and bright colours in her clothing, preferring patterns that drew attention away from her less appealing features. 

Features that Sherlock had found fault with on numerous occasions.

And with that, Molly began to panic. _I can't do this._

"Yes, you can." Molly looked up, startled, to make eye contact with Anthea's reflection in the mirror. She hadn't realized she'd spoke aloud.

Anthea's hand hovered over Molly's shoulder for a moment, then dropped down and briefly squeezed. "There's nothing wrong with being nervous. Just remember, you'll most likely never see any of those people again after tonight, so their opinions won't matter in the long run. Don't seduce the host, try not to vomit on anyone in the Prime Minister's party, ignore anything that comes out of Sherlock's mouth and you should be fine."

Molly laughed in spite of herself. "Where's Janine?"

"Treating herself to a manicure on 'Mike's' tab." 

Molly stifled another laugh as the head stylist for the salon stepped up to her chair and began to run his fingers through her hair.

"What are we thinking? Long and loose, with a bit of curl? Glamorous starlet?"

Molly nodded, already trying to picture herself looking something like Veronica Lake.

She could see Anthea shaking her head in the mirror. "No. Give her some volume up top, with a low, messy bun in the back."

"But Sherlock-" Molly cleared her throat and tried to sound more confident. "Sherlock told me that he preferred my hair loose."

Anthea's smiled as if she knew something Molly didn't. "He specifically requested that your hair be up tonight. Very insistent that he didn't need the distraction of watching you fuss with it all night. Strange that a man like Sherlock Holmes would get distracted by your hair, isn't it?" She leaned closer and whispered near Molly's ear, making sure to meet her gaze in the mirror. "Perhaps you should consider taking it down on that long car ride home?"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Did Sherlock ever tell you that Mycroft knows several languages? Including Greek."

Molly wasn't sure which stunned her more: Anthea calling her boss by his given name, or her implication that Sherlock's brother had chosen his assistant's code name knowing full well what it meant.

"Just returning the favour." With that, Anthea stepped away and let the stylist work his magic.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

"You look . . . lovely." They'd been travelling in the car long enough to leave the city behind, and that was the first thing Sherlock had said since replying to her nervous "Hello" when she had joined him in the backseat of the car.

Since he was staring out at the English countryside through the car window, rather than looking in her direction, Molly suspected the words were uttered more out of politeness than any real desire to compliment her.

"Are you trying to make small talk?" It was either that or another of those insincere compliments that she found so annoying. One more of those and she was going to seriously consider taking off one of her shoes and smacking him with the four inch heel.

He looked at her then, eyes narrowed in thought. "I was practicing for this evening. Mrs Barrett's guests are going to expect me to acknowledge their existence in some way." He studied her expression for a long moment. "I've mucked it up somehow, haven't I?"

She pursed her lips and titled her head back and forth as if considering his question. "Yeah, just a bit. You're trying too hard, and your inflection was off. Came off as forced rather than sincere."

Sherlock frowned, clearly annoyed at his failure.

Molly took pity on him. "Look, just do whatever it is you did with Janine."

His eyes widened in horror. "I would think that would be extremely inappropriate."

His response confused her, until she realized they probably weren't talking about the same thing. "Oh. OH. No, no, don't do . . . whatever it is you're thinking about right now. I meant charm me. Her. Them. Charm them. The guests. Just pretend they're Janine. You managed to pull that off, making her think you were lovely and sweet and, umm, whatever else, for weeks. You should be able to manage it for a few hours tonight."

She was babbling. She recognized it. Sherlock recognized it, judging from the look of discomfort on his face.

What was it about that man that could turn her into a rambling idiot with one look?

Molly was the first to break eye contact. Dusk was beginning to set in, and soon there wouldn't be enough light to see anything of note outside the car windows.

They rode in silence for several long minutes. The few glances she'd dared to dart in his direction told her he was probably somewhere in his mind palace, sorting through information about the guests at tonight's party.

He might have been happy to continue the journey without speaking another word, but she wasn't. 

"I met up with your brother the other day."

"Obviously." He looked at her as if he hadn't a clue why she was bringing it up.

"Right. Anyway, I met with him, and he said something odd-"

"That sounds like Mycroft, yes."

Molly closed her eyes and prayed for the fortitude not to smack him in the arm. With a deep breath, she tried for the third time. "He said to tell you that he'd done his part, now it was time for you to fulfil your end of the bargain. What did he mean? Unless you can't tell me because of-" She broke off and shot a secretive glance toward the driver behind the nearly opaque partition, then leaned closer to Sherlock and whispered, "Because of National Security or something?"

"Really, Molly, have you been watching more of those spy movies?" Even in the fading light she could see him roll his eyes. "Nothing as interesting as espionage, I'm afraid. He agreed to take Mummy and Father to see _La Traviata_ last month, then called off at the last minute due to urgent 'business' in another country."

He picked a piece of lint off the leg of his trousers, apparently bored with the topic already. "I know his 'business' was nothing more serious than a weekend of drinks and camel races with an old university chum who happens to be a diplomat for some desert country, the name of which I've already deleted."

"That's horrible." She'd never met Mr and Mrs Holmes; and, admittedly, she knew nothing about Mycroft's relationship with his parents, but she couldn't imagine lying to her own mother like that.

"The worst part was that Mummy was so disappointed, if I hadn't immediately taken on a case, she might have succeeded in forcing me take Mycroft's place. I would have been stuck watching a subpar soprano flutter about the stage pretending to die of consumption."

"Yes, Sherlock. That is clearly the worst part." She could tell her sarcasm hit home from the way he narrowed his eyes at her. "I still don't understand what that has to do with me though."

He huffed, "He agreed to push through a very specific special clearance for you; and in return, I won't tell Mummy and Father the real reason why they had to go to the opera alone."

"You blackmailed your brother?" She left the "For me?" unspoken, but it was clearly implied.

"I blackmailed my brother," Sherlock confirmed.

Molly settled back in her seat and looked out the window to hide the small smile that wouldn't leave her lips. Trees shrouded much of the passing landscape in shadows, but she was content enough with the view for the moment. 

A few more minutes passed while she basked in the warmth of knowing that Sherlock had cared enough to taunt Mycroft for her.

Thinking of that eventually lead her to her earlier conversation with Anthea. "Do you happen to know if it was Mycroft who assigned Anthea her code name?" Molly was fairly certain she was correct, but getting confirmation wouldn't hurt. She was a romantic at heart, and the thought of a budding secret romance between Sherlock's brother and his . . . whatever Anthea was made her giggly.

"Who?"

She turned toward Sherlock again, wishing she could see him better. "Anthea. Mycroft's assistant. Or perhaps assistant isn't the right term? Is she an . . . an agent, is that what they're called?"

"If you're asking if she has been in the field, and if she could dispatch an assailant with relative ease, then yes. If you're asking if she fetches Mycroft's dry cleaning and schedules his appointments, then technically yes to that as well, but only if she feels the inclination day. He's got other staff to handle that sort of thing. I do believe he trusts her to handle some of his more . . . delicate issues, the kind that he wouldn't use strictly official channels to deal with."

"So, things that involve you?"

Sherlock grunted, but didn't deny it. "She's his, well, let's say she's his Gal Friday who is almost always armed and prepared for trouble, should it arise."

"Like a bodyguard?" At first it was difficult for Molly to think of Anthea in those terms; but the more she considered it, the more her mind bent to accept the idea.

"I suppose she could do that, too. In a pinch. But, as I said, he's got other people who can handle that sort of thing if he has the need. Why the sudden interest in my brother's staff?" Sherlock frowned and turned to give her his full attention. Clearly he was hoping there was a puzzle to gnaw on to distract him from the remainder of the tedious car ride.

"I was just curious as to whether or not Mycroft picked Anthea's code name, or if it came from somewhere else."

He was silent for a moment, possibly searching his memory. "How do you know it isn't her given name?"

"Her wording. The expression on her face. She as good as told me herself." She had been rather proud of herself, remembering Sherlock's often mentioned chiding of John. She hadn't just seen, she'd observed.

"Good instincts. You may be more useful to me tonight than I originally thought."

"You have no idea how thrilled I am to hear that," Molly replied with absolutely no enthusiasm colouring her voice at all.

Sherlock either ignored her annoyance or didn't pick up on it. The former was more likely, but the latter wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility. "You're right. I believe her actual given name is Andrea or something similar. I haven't a clue where she picked up Anthea from, though." He drummed the fingers of one hand against his thigh. "She didn't tell you how she got it?"

"No." Molly shook her head. "She hinted, a bit; but nothing outright. I got the impression it might have been assigned by someone, possibly Mycroft." It had been more than a simple impression, Anthea had practically admitted it without so many words at the salon. But she didn't want to mention that to Sherlock just yet. "I mean, if she'd chosen it herself, wouldn't she have just told me when I asked?"

"Perhaps." He put his hands together and tucked them under his chin. He must have been extremely bored if he was prepared to put this much thought into her query. "You have a theory, I assume?"

"I do." She leaned closer to better see his expression, her lips twitching in amusement as she waited for him to figure it out.

He shifted farther away from her, nearly pressing his shoulder against the car door. "Are you going to tell me?"

"I thought you would prefer to figure it out on your own. Unless you can't?"

He scoffed and waved one hand dismissively in her direction, before returning it to its earlier position. 

"You think Mycroft assigned it to her. But why would you assume that? It's the obvious conclusion, of course, but there's more to it than that. You've attached some special significance to it."

Molly smiled coyly. "Have I?"

She really did find the way he worked through deductions to be fascinating to witness (and more than a little stimulating). Unless that brilliant mind was turned in her direction, it never seemed to end well when Sherlock deduced her.

He glared at her for interrupting his thought process. "Yes. You have."

"Would you like a hint?" She was beginning to enjoy herself now.

"Fine. But only because this is growing tedious."

She cleared her throat, leaned even closer, and whispered, "It's Greek."

"What is? Anthea? Of course it's Greek, any idiot would know that."

Just like that, his attitude drained all the fun out of teasing him. "And? What does that mean?"

With an extremely put upon sigh, Sherlock closed his eyes and began to think. Since she was closer to him now, she could see the rapid movement under his eye lids even in the limited light, as if he were looking through the pages of a book. He lowered his hands to his lap, his fingers twitching periodically. She suspected he was searching through his mind palace for any incidental knowledge of the Greek language that he might have stored away at some point.

While he was busy, she shifted back to her half of the seat and brushed her hands down her wrap and gown, trying to smooth out any wrinkles that might have developed during the car ride. The wrap was warm enough to help combat the chill that would surely be in the evening air, yet still looked delicate and light. The gown was very pretty, and she'd hate to ruin it. She'd been told the colour brought out the natural highlights in her (usually dull, to her eyes anyway) brown hair. Too bad she'd never have another occasion to wear it. 

She'd look dreadfully silly traipsing about the lab in it. Molly giggled at the thought. 

Perhaps she'd meet a bachelor at the party. A handsome Prince Charming who would sweep her off her feet and take her to lots of glamorous parties that required formal gowns, midnight yacht rides, and champagne picnics out on soft verdant lawns. She'd have to have Sherlock vet him first, though. Wouldn't want a repeat of Janine's situation. 

Or, perhaps, she'd been indulging in too many romance novels. The kind she enjoyed reading during those rare, relaxing bubble baths she desperately needed after a particularly tiring day at work? The kind of day that almost always happened to coincide with Sherlock deciding to drop in for an unexpected visit to the morgue or lab.

Seriously though, verdant lawns? Definitely far too many romance novels.

Perhaps she didn't need the fancy dress or a handsome Prince Charming at all. 

Maybe she should look into booking a vacation at one of those tropical singles resorts. Find a hot, single man (Again, have Sherlock deduce him first, no more psychopaths or cheating married men, thank you very much.) and have a few days of giggly romance and hot, sweaty sex. 

She came out of her musings to find Sherlock's eyes open and trained on her. Molly was thankful for the lack of adequate lighting, as the shadows hid the heat flushing her cheeks. She would die if he managed to deduce that she was thinking about sex, especially while she was in the same room (or car) as him. "Did you figure it out yet?"

"You believe Mycroft thinks she's pretty." He said it as if it were they most idiotic words he'd ever uttered.

"No. I believe that Mycroft thinks of her as a beautiful, blossoming flower."

Sherlock scoffed again. He was doing that a lot this evening.

" _His_ flower," Molly clarified, just in case he'd missed that tiny detail.

The scoffing turned into a choking sputter, and Molly smirked at Sherlock's predictable reaction.

He sneered, "Mycroft doesn't believe in that sort of drivel. He doesn't do _feelings_."

"Or, and this is just an idea, what if that's only what he'd like you to think. I suppose it could have been a completely subconscious gesture on his part; but the fact remains that someone gave his Gal Friday the name Anthea, and the most likely culprit is Mycroft. Anyway you look at it, subconscious or not, it's a bit sweet. And, dare I say, romantic?"

Sherlock's expression shuttered, and he turned to look out the window. She heard him mutter, "Ridiculous," under his breath.

"You're right. How silly of me to have brought it up." Molly followed his example and looked out her own window. She knew she was grinning like a fool; but she was strangely pleased with herself and she couldn't help it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

The meal had been tolerable, if a bit disappointing.

They had been seated at one of many circular tables set up inside a large, temporary pavilion on the lawn near the main house. There were plenty of flowers arrangements, delicate china, and real silver flatware to differentiate the Barratt's fete from the average garden party.

As for the food, Molly would have honestly preferred sourdough buns and cold cuts. While nothing had been drenched in the dreaded all-concealing sauce, the portions that were on her plate had been very small. She had been careful to take dainty bites, mimicking the other female guests seated at their table. In hindsight, Molly was grateful that Anthea had insisted she eat lunch.

Sherlock, she noticed, hadn't even bothered touching the food on his plate. 

Although, at one point during the entrée portion of the meal, he had gestured across the room and loudly asked if that was a member of the Royal Family standing next to the coffee urn. By the time he'd muttered, "No, I must be mistaken," and the rest of their disappointed tablemates had returned to their meals, his and Molly's plates had somehow been switched.

As she dug into his salmon, she caught him looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Molly nudged her leg against his thigh in silent thanks, and he nodded in return. 

He also, she noted, made no effort to move away from her for once.

When the last plate had been cleared by the waiters, Sherlock excused himself and disappeared. Molly spent several minutes alone at the table as the other guests wandered away to speak with friends. She wondered when (or if) he was planning to return. She was just considering getting up and looking for a powder room to hide in, when a distinguished looking gentleman stopped next to her table to ask if she'd like to dance.

That was when she'd realized there was music coming from somewhere outside the pavilion. Since there was still no sign of Sherlock, Molly gratefully offered her hand to the gentleman and let him escort her toward the gardens. A decent sized parquet dance floor had been set up under an excessively large number of fairy lights.

She was dancing with partner number four, desperately trying to keep her toes from being crushed, when a familiar voice asked to cut in. Her current partner seemed prepared to protest until he caught sight of Sherlock's imposing figure. The man offered her a sickly smiled and stepped out of the way.

Sherlock took her hand in one of his and rested the other just below her shoulder blade, before leading her into a waltz.

"Thank you for that," Molly whispered once they'd left the other man behind.

"I couldn't really take you home with a broken foot, now could I? I'd never hear the end of it."

"Yes, well, regardless of your motives, I do appreciate your intervention." 

Dancing with Sherlock was surprisingly easy in comparison to the other four men. He lead with such confidence and grace that she didn't have to worry about where to place her feet; which was good because she barely remembered anything from the summer dance course she'd taken when she was seven. Even if she had, back then she hadn't been trying to navigate on impossibly tall heels. Well, impossibly tall for her, most of the other women seemed to be doing just fine.

Strangely, she didn't feel the need to fill the moment with nervous small talk for once. Which was probably just as well as she realized he was paying more attention to the other guests on the dance floor than to her. There was a brief twinge of hurt, deep in her chest; but she tamped it down. This wasn't a real date, and even if it was . . . well, it was Sherlock. To expect him not to pay attention to his surrounding would be foolish at best.

The gentleman who had originally brought her to the dance floor caught her eye as she and Sherlock glided past, and he smiled at her. He'd been nice enough, listened when she'd talked and seemed legitimately interested in her answers, and he danced almost as well as Sherlock. Molly lifted her hand from Sherlock's arm and waved her fingers in response.

"If you'd prefer to continue your flirtation with that man, then by all means, let me know. I'd be more than happy to steer you in his direction. Although, in the spirit of our friendship, I feel that I should warn you he is older than he would appear at first glance. Dyed hair, covering grey. Poorly. Capped teeth. Tan is clearly spread on. A girdle under his tux, most likely attempting to cover a paunch. Shall I go on?"

Molly hadn't realized he'd even noticed the other man, much less taken the time to catalogue his various perceived faults. "None of that means he can't dance, Sherlock."

He huffed, and lead her around the outside of the dance floor and, coincidentally, away from her former dance partner.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

Annoyingly, he continued to look everywhere but at her.

Molly tapped him on the shoulder. "Can I have your full attention for just a moment?" 

She waited until he reluctantly gave in and made eye contact with her. "I'm not looking to go home with him. I came here with you, and even though this isn't a date, it would be incredibly rude--not to mention extremely tacky--for me not to leave with the same man I arrived with. Although, I suppose I could get his number, since you've brought up the idea of seeing him again. Maybe I'll give him a call next week and see if he'd like to go out for Thai. Do rich people do that? Go out for Thai?"

She thought she'd been fairly obvious that she was only teasing about asking for the other man's number, but Sherlock bristled nevertheless. Molly gave up trying to understand what could possibly be bothering him now, and went back to trying to convince herself that dancing with Sherlock was no big deal and absolutely nothing she should freak out about. 

That song ended, and another began. Sherlock pulled her closer, raising the hand on her back slightly until his fingers just grazed her bare skin above the dress. It was all she could do to keep from gasping in shock at the unexpected contact.

They made a full circuit of the dance floor before Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke. "You do look lovely this evening."

Her steps faltered, and she nearly stomped on his foot. Her head shot up to find him watching her. His expression seemed completely sincere. 

"Oh. Thank you. Anthea helped. And Janine. A lot. Bit like having my own fairy godmothers. And, of course, your brother paid for everything." There was the babbling again.

He continued to look at her, his expression softer than usual. Warmer. His arm tightened, the hand on her back pulling her even closer until they were nearly pressed chest to chest.

It was a perfect moment.

Too perfect.

Molly was suddenly suspicious. "What are you doing?"

His steps faltered, and he frowned down at her. "Dancing with you. I thought that was obvious." 

She tried to draw her hand away from his, but Sherlock wrapped his fingers tighter around hers and refused to let her pull free. "We've talked about this. Just ask me for whatever it is, and I'll either say yes or no. You don't have to try to charm me into it."

"What if I like charming you?"

"Sherlock." His name came out as a low warning that would have carried far more weight if it had been issued by anyone else but her.

His frown deepened. Evidently, he had been expecting a different response. "I was being honest. You do look lovely this evening. Not every compliment I've given you has been disingenuous. Nor have I had an ulterior motive for _all_ of them." He released her hand and put two fingers under her chin to tilt her face up until she could clearly see his expression. There was an intensity there, a warmth in his eyes, which she rarely saw. "It's obvious that I've given you far too much reason to doubt me in the past, but I am trying."

In her heart, she knew it was true; he had been making an effort to be less of a prat of late. She was just so weary of analyzing everything he said or did to figure out if he was being sincere. It was so much easier to assume he wanted something from the start, than to risk believing him and having her feelings stomped on over and over.

Her frame lost its rigidity, and Molly allowed herself to melt against him slightly. 

"Forgive me?" he asked, so softly she barely heard it.

She sighed and pressed her forehead against his jacket lapel. "Ugh. Of course I do."

He chuckled quietly, his chest rumbling against her cheek. "You don't have to sound so happy about it."

Molly lifted her head. "You wanted forgiveness, Sherlock. You didn't say I needed to be cheerful about it."

The song came to an end, and he began to lead them away from the dance floor; one hand against the small of her back to guide her. "Right as usual. Come along, Molly. As delightful as it is to dance with you--which is not empty flattery, so don't give me that look--we've got mingling to do, or Mycroft will insist on forcing me to attend another one of these boring things as punishment."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Somehow, Sherlock had managed to charm Mr Barrett into leading them on a brief house tour. Under the pretence that Sherlock was extremely interested in the original Victorian architecture that the Barretts' refurbishers had uncovered during the restoration of the house, Sherlock had arranged to get a quick peek at a large portion of the building.

He'd forced her to make small talk with every single person who attempted to greet the rude consulting detective, while he blatantly sized them up and then ignored them.

He'd even stopped by the kitchen so that she could ask the catering crew for directions to the powder room (that she didn't actually get a chance to use), then spent several moments genially chit-chatting with two of the hired waitresses and a busboy.

Now they were back outside, swiftly walking along the garden path that encircled the house and meandered through a portion of the grounds. Molly's feet hurt, and she was getting tired of being led around like a docile pet.  
Sherlock looked up at the moonlit sky, muttering to himself about cloud coverage and obscuring shadows.

So much for simply being a plus one to a social obligation.

"Are we on a case?"

He stopped walking, and slowly turned around to look at her for the first time in more than a quarter of an hour. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, considering her words; then his lips tilted up in a hint of a mischievous smile. "Yes. _We_ are. Isn't it exciting?"

It was only then that Molly realized what she'd said. She couldn't help flushing a deep red at her presumption. But when Sherlock took off, saying he needed to see the bushes below the window of the maid's room, she couldn't hide her grin. Molly hiked up her skirt and hurried after him.

Once the bushes in question had been inspected to his satisfaction, he lead her back to the well maintained garden path, and began to outline the details of the case for her. She knew full well that he was only telling her because he liked to work through things aloud (and enjoyed having an audience to remind him of how clever he was at the same time) rather than expecting her to offer any real insight. But it was still nice to have some idea why they were skulking around the Barrett estate. 

"Mrs Veronica Barrett is an associate of my brother. What she does, specifically, has no relevance to the case, and even if it did . . . Well, let's just say that I very much doubt your new security clearance would even begin to cover anything I could tell you--most of which I'm not even supposed to be aware of--and Mycroft would have both of our heads, so I'll just skip to the pertinent bits, shall I?"

Molly wasn't going to argue with him. In general, Mycroft Holmes was a bit of a git, but he had the potential to be a very dangerous git if pushed too far. Which was something Molly had absolutely no desire to do.

"All you need to know is that after the Barretts finished renovations to the estate and decided to make the move out to the country. Mrs Barrett began to work from her home office to avoid the daily commute to and from London. Somewhere in that house is hidden an interior office with no windows and only a single entrance. The door is solid steel, locked with a keypad that only two people have the code for. Mrs Barrett and her personal assistant; Mr Reginald Smythe, who lives in a small guest cottage located elsewhere on the estate."

That would explain why Sherlock had insisted on walking through every room he could get access to; he was analyzing the layout, probably trying to deduce how difficult it would be for an intruder to find the hidden office.

"Exactly."

"Pardon?"

He drew her to a stop, and bent to examine the soil next to a lattice pergola. "You've figured out why I was so interested in the house earlier."

"I'm not even going to bother asking."

"Probably for the best. Do you see the footprints here? And this other set here, near the bench?"

She did, but only after he pointed them out. "Are they important?"

"Possibly. I would say they're roughly three days old. That was when it last rained in this area, and the prints were made when the ground was still wet and soft. The first belong to a man, slight build, shoes are expensive. Italian. Mr Barrett, most likely, although I'd have to see the rest of the household staff to make sure. The second belong to a woman, too tall to be Mrs Barrett, and thinner. You can tell from the depth of the imprint of the heel."

Molly decided to take his word for it. She looked around and considered their location in relation to the main house. "You know, with the height of the bushes, if someone were sitting on the bench, they couldn't be seen by anyone in the house."

Sherlock's head snapped up and he began to shuffle around, checking angles and line of sight. "Good catch, Molly."

She flushed, pleased with the unexpected praise.

He continued to tell her about the case as he searched for more evidence. "Two weeks ago, Mrs Barrett entered her office, just after midnight, to answer an unexpected call from overseas. She noticed a small statuette missing from the shelving behind her desk. The statuette had been a gift from her husband, given to her to commemorate the birth of their only child, a son named Hollis. It was a gold filigree butterfly delicately perched upon a porcelain holly flower. I'm told it was one of a kind, created specifically for Mrs Barrett."

Sherlock crouched to examine the underside of the bench. He pulled a pen light out of his trouser pocket, then leaned forward and crawled underneath. His voice was muffled when he spoke again. "As you can expect, she quickly left the room, and returned with Smythe and a member of the household security in tow, only to find the statuette back on the shelf in its usual position."

He withdrew from under the bench quickly, brushing ineffectually at the dirt and leaves on his hands and trousers. "I don't think the footprints will be important to the case."

"Are you sure?"

"Very. Someone has been holding clandestine meetings out here, but they aren't trying to profit from the government's secrets. On the positive side, at least they've been practicing safe sex."

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock tucked his pen light back into his trousers, then pulled a handkerchief out of an inner pocket of his jacket. He started to scrub dirt off his hands, and tilted his head toward the bushes behind the bench. "There are two used condoms back there."

"OH! Out here? Really?" Molly looked at the bench and couldn't help but wonder at the logistics involved. "And they just left that sort of thing laying about, for anyone to find?"

"I sincerely doubt they were expecting someone to be crawling around on their hands and knees under the bougainvillea."

"True." She was still distracted by the very idea of being bold enough to just . . . go for it, out in the open like that. She had barely been comfortable doing it in her own sitting room with Tom, and then only when Toby hadn't been watching.

"Focus, Molly. On the case."

"Right. Sorry." She was thankful that they weren't closer to the lighted pavilion or the dance floor as she could feel the heat of another deep blush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.

"At the time, Mrs Barrett chalked the incident up to her imagination and being woken in the middle of the night for the call. A day later, however, a gentleman who had been a involved in a number of important . . . things, involving the sort of business Mrs Barrett and my brother have their hands in, disappeared. He was later found propped up on a park bench very, very dead."

Something about that struck a chord in her memory. "Wait, was this the body you insisted I examine even thought it wasn't on my list?"

"The one with the post mortem bruising that indicated the body had been flat on its back long enough for the blood to pool, even though it had been found sitting up, you mean?"

She was fairly positive he was being difficult on purpose. Perhaps he was uncomfortable standing so close to the sex bench, and was trying to distract himself by annoying her? "Yep. That one."

"Then yes. Really, Molly, I've asked you to examine many bodies since we first met, you should make an effort to be more specific in your questions."

She was about to reply, but Sherlock held a finger up to his lips. Molly heard the low murmur of another conversation seconds after Sherlock. By the time she fully registered the other couple approaching from the direction of the house, he was already pushing her farther under the pergola and off the path. He wrapped his arms around her waist and twisted her so that his back was to the path, before tucking his face against her throat. She wasn't able to control her surprised gasp nor the way she tensed when his lips brushed her skin; but it only took her a moment to realize what he was up to.

As the other couple came even with them, Molly brought her hands up to grasp his hair and pull him closer, effectively hiding most of his distinctive curls from view. She giggled in feigned embarrassment, then pressed her cheek against his hair and purred, "This isn't the time or place, love. I'll make it worth your while to wait until we get home." Molly tried to sound as seductive as possible. She didn't have a lot of practice at that sort of thing, and suspected that she fell well short of her goal. Sherlock's fingers dug into her hips, causing her to gasp again.

She raised her head just enough to catch the eye of the other woman, who gave Molly a knowing smile before latching on to her partner's arm and pulling him down the path and away from the pergola.

The moment they were out of sight, Molly dropped her hands and pushed Sherlock away.

The expression on his face would have been amusing if she didn't have more important things to clarify.

"I'm assuming the neck nuzzling-"

"There was no nuzzling. I don't nuzzle," he quickly interrupted, looking quite indignant. 

"Fine. I'm assuming the non-nuzzling was a subterfuge to keep your face hidden? Because you don't want anyone to know you're out here looking around for something specific, rather than taking a moonlit stroll to find a place to steal a quick snog?"

"Very astute of you, Doctor Hooper." Sherlock put more space between the two of them. 

"Sarcasm?" It didn't sound as if it was, but it was difficult to tell with him sometimes.

He thought about it for a moment. The tic at the corner of his eye made a brief appearance, which told her that he was truly considering his answer. 

"No. I mean it." He looked as surprised to be saying it, as she looked hearing it.

"Huh."

He narrowed his eyes at her inarticulate reply, and she shrugged in response.

"So why wait so long to come out here and investigate? If nothing else, I would have figured the local constabulary or even New Scotland Yard--if they could have managed to work it into their jurisdiction somehow--would have trampled all over your evidence by now."

Sherlock left the pergola and indicated that they should continue down the path. "They would have, if they'd known there had been a crime committed."

Molly followed, forced to be much more careful with her foot placement now as there was less light the farther away from the house they walked. One misstep on a paving stone and she'd be face first in a flower bed. She reached out to tug on his sleeve, slowing him so she could keep up.

Thankfully, he shortened his stride once he realized what the problem was.

"Mrs Barrett didn't call the police?" Molly asked.

"She wasn't even certain there had been a crime, not until it had been confirmed that her contact had met with foul play, and hadn't just had a poorly timed thrombosis. Not that there really is a convenient time for that." He continued to scan the grounds as they walked. "Even that, in itself, wouldn't normally have been confirmation. You would be surprised how often these kind of people disappear, only to reappear on a slab somewhere."

Molly shook her head. "No, I wouldn't."

It was obvious that he'd forgotten what she did for a living. Knowing Sherlock, he may have even temporarily forgotten her name in his enthusiasm for puzzling through the case. _Not forgotten. He doesn't forget things. He'll deliberately delete them, if he doesn't think he'll need the information again. He might even misplace them in that vast, bewildering mind of his. But he'll remember eventually, if he thinks it's important enough. He always does._

Sherlock looked at her, really looked at her, for a long moment. His gaze flicked from her carefully styled hair down to her feet in their extremely uncomfortable heels, then back. He was visibly perplexed. She'd seen that expression before, when she'd surprised him with a quiet observation or two about himself.

Then his face cleared. "You're right, you wouldn't. Sometimes it can be . . . difficult to remember that there is a wealth of experience and a backbone of steel hidden behind all of that."

"That?" Molly wasn't sure if she was being insulted again.

He waved a hand at her. "You. The sunshine, the hideously cheerful jumpers, the . . . the willingness to believe the best in someone." His eyes softened again, turning into pale blue pools. Molly was afraid she might drown in them if she weren't careful. "Even when they've let you down, time after time, and given you no reason to trust in them. In me."

He stepped closer, and Molly had the brief thought that he was peering straight into her soul. "You appear to be a timid mouse, easy to overlook and manipulate. But underneath it all, you are Molly Hooper, a force to be reckoned with. And that has lead to more than one man's downfall."

Her breath caught in her throat. For just a moment, no more than a split second, she thought Sherlock was going to kiss her.

He blinked several times in rapid succession-- _Buffering, isn't that what John called it?_ \--and just like that, the moment, whatever it had been, was gone.

"A bit of research uncovered a string of incidents that, when taken separately, wouldn't draw too much attention; but when you factor in the single common denominator, it soon became apparent that there was something suspect going on. I'm sure you've deduced that common denominator by now?"

She hadn't, but she appreciated that he seemed to think it was possible that she had, rather than assuming it was behind her comprehension. This was the first she'd even heard of the case or Mrs Barrett; but Sherlock was aware of that. Which meant the answer was in the information he'd given her this evening. Probably staring her right in the face. Which would mean . . .

"Mrs Barrett?"

"Oh, very good, Molly. I would have had to spell it out for John."

She very much doubted that was true.

"The theory is that someone has been bugging her office, then?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and started walking again. The path had finally begun to curve its way back toward the house. 

"It would appear so. After her contact turned up on the park bench, the statuette was examined. Nothing was found, of course."

"Of course." Recording devices were traceable, according to the police procedurals she liked to watch on the telly. Obviously, if one had been found, Sherlock would have had no interest in the case. Not enough of a challenge for him. "So the spy was returning the original when she interrupted him?"

"Or her. Espionage is not strictly a man's game. We're looking for someone who could gain access to a secure area without detection, twice at a minimum. Although I suspect it was more times than that. Far more. Mrs Barrett was routinely in and out of that office at all hours, assuming her schedule is anything like my brother's; which I have reason to believe it is. Therefore, our culprit would need to be nearby, have the ability to move about freely without raising the alarm, and be able to observe the household without arousing suspicion."

He stopped again, eyes shifting from side to side without focusing on anything. Molly knew he was working something out in his head. If she hadn't been paying attention, she might have missed his barely audible, "Or perhaps a part of it."

"Her husband?" Seemed like the obvious choice.

"Possible, but unlikely." Sherlock began to move; first turning around in a complete circle, then pacing up and down the path no more than five meters each direction. She'd seen him do this before, his body needing to burn off kinetic energy while his brain worked on a difficult problem. It was a direct contrast to the unnatural stillness that usually accompanied his forays into the mind palace. "He'd have nothing to gain from it."

Molly offered a suggestion, "Money."

"He's got access to it already. Mrs Barrett loves her husband, and denies him nothing. Including his mistress. Before you ask, no, the mistress isn't a motive. It's quite obvious that Mrs Barrett is aware of her husband's extramarital activities. I would even go so far as to say she welcomes them. They keep him happy, and out of her boudoir. I seriously doubt that she's the one that's been out here cavorting on that bench with her husband. Which is a mental picture I will need to delete as soon as possible." Sherlock shuddered, a look of revulsion momentarily clouding his features. "As I was saying, Mrs Barrett is perfectly content with the state of her marriage. As is Mr Barrett." 

"What about the mistress, then? What if she wants Mr Barrett to leave his wife for her?" Molly asked when Sherlock passed by again.

"It's a motive, yes; but how many jealous mistresses/maids would have the means to bypass that level of security, and the opportunity to sell classified secrets to the highest bidder?"

"The PA?"

"Too obvious. He's the clear suspect. Access, opportunity, would know exactly who to approach with the stolen information. Only an idiot would implicate himself like that."

"As you are overly fond of pointing out, the world is full of idiots, Sherlock."

His head snapped around until he could see her again. "You're right. It is. But not Smythe. I've met him, he's anything but an idiot. However . . . I'll need to see that office. Come on."

Sherlock took off at a decent clip, and Molly had to lift her skirt once more to try to keep up. They bypassed the dancing area all together and headed straight for the pavilion where they'd eaten.

"Once we're inside, be helpful and bring me Smythe. I'll need to speak with him about arranging a time for a return visit."

"Not Mrs Barrett?"

"Not just yet. It wouldn't do to be seen speaking to her for any length of time. There's still a chance the spy isn't aware that we're on to him."

"Or her." 

Sherlock gave her a sharp look when she parroted his earlier words back at him, then nodded. "Or her. For tonight, I'm officially here on behalf of my brother, who is an old friend of the family. Nothing more. The fewer people who realize what I do, and start speculating as to why I'm here, the better." 

They stepped under the pavilion roof, and surveyed the area. While they'd been gone, the catering crew had been hard at work. The circular tables had been cleared off. A long buffet table had been set up off to the side, covered in various desserts. The smaller table with a coffee urn was once more being manned by a waiter. There was even an open bar.

Sherlock nodded his head toward one of the men standing near the bar. "There's Smythe. The short gentleman with the well-waxed handlebar and the fuchsia pocket square. Extremely competent and organized, but he has an overly developed flair for the dramatic. Probably asking the bartender to make note of any guests who may need the offer of a ride home this evening."

Molly nodded along to everything he was saying, although she realized very little of it was actually relevant to the task Sherlock had set for her. She very much doubted the state of the man's moustache would play into her request for him to meet with Sherlock in a less conspicuous area.

Minutes later she had done just that, asked Smythe if he had a few minutes to spare to speak with Mycroft's brother; and they were just finalizing where the two men should meet, when an unholy bellow filled the pavilion. Molly whirled around to see a tall, stocky man once again yell, "YOU!"

There was just enough time for her to think the man might have been very attractive if his face weren't twisted in rage before he barrelled across the room, straight toward . . .

"Oh fuck," Molly whimpered. He was charging straight for Sherlock; who, apparently, didn't have the common sense to get out of the way. If anything, he braced himself for the imminent impact.

Smythe was quick to try to intervene, dashing across the pavilion with Molly hurrying closely behind.

"Where is she, Holmes?" The man swung his fist at Sherlock's face, and Sherlock easily dodged it. 

Another wild punch met with an efficient block.

Even in his tux, Molly couldn't help but notice that Sherlock was extremely fit and agile. _And now really, really is not the time, Molly._

"If she wanted you to know her whereabouts, Chapman, she would have told you."

Smythe stood just outside of harm's way, hands on his hips, and beseeched them to stop. "Gentleman, please. Can't we sit down and discuss this like civilized men?"

It didn't take a genius to deduce that Smythe's suggestion was going to be blatantly ignored. However, they were beginning to draw a crowd, and she could already hear people whispering Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock, people are-"

The instigator of the fight spoke over her as if he didn't even realize she existed. "I know she was at your place, Holmes. I don't know what lies you've been telling Janine, to lure her away from me, but I'll get her back. Don't think I won't." He moved closer still, trying to use his bulk to intimidate Sherlock.

From Molly's point of view, it didn't seem to work.

"She came to me. Couldn't wait to get as far away from you as possible," Sherlock taunted the other man. "She told me she found your attentions repugnant." Somehow, even though they were similar heights, Sherlock managed to look down his nose at Chapman. Who, apparently, was Janine's ex, the creepy stalker Francis.

Molly huffed, annoyed. "Really, Sherlock? Is this really the time to be provoking-"

"Shut up, bitch!" Chapman snapped his head around to glare at her for a second, then returned his attention to Sherlock with a sneer. "Keep your tart in line, Holmes, or I'll do it for you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously, and his lips parted to deliver what would have surely been a deadly verbal cut, but Molly beat him to it. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Suddenly, Chapman shoved her, his hand hard against Molly's chest. She fell back against a chair, bounced off of it, and barely managed to keep from pulling a table down with her when she landed on her arse hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

"And that's when Sherlock punched him in the face." Molly couldn't help but smile a little at the memory.

"He didn't." Janine looked toward the kitchen where Sherlock had disappeared the moment he'd finished helping Molly limp to the sofa. He'd barely slowed long enough to say hello to Janine, and to advise her to direct all questions to Molly as he had a few things to attend to. "Our Sherlock?"

That was a little strange for Molly to hear, having herself and Janine linked together regarding Sherlock like that. She supposed it was true, though, in a way. 

"You should hear the story about the time some men broke into Baker Street several years ago. Bad enough they forced their way into the building, but one of them hurt Mrs Hudson. John said they ended up needing to drive that one off in an ambulance. Greg--a friend of ours from Scotland Yard, he was at John and Mary's wedding, you may not remember him--he told me that Sherlock claimed the guy 'fell' out of the window into Mrs Hudson's rubbish bins. Several times." She thought back to Sherlock and Chapman's fight at the Barrett estate, and the way the detective had no trouble defending himself. "Anyway, he's, uhm, well, Sherlock is tougher than he looks."

Janine gestured toward the bare foot gingerly cradled in her lap. "That doesn't explain this, though."

Molly was slouched on the sofa with Janine perched on the coffee table in front of her, carefully stabilizing Molly's foot and ankle. The ankle was extremely swollen, most likely sprained in Molly's opinion; and judging from the additional swelling and bruising, she guessed her little toe was broken as well.

"I can explain that." Sherlock reappeared with a bag of frozen peas in one hand and a kitchen towel in the other. He knelt next to Molly's leg, and wrapped the peas in the towel before gently placing the makeshift ice pack on her foot. Molly hissed and tried not to jerk away. He waited until she was sure she was going to be able to withstand the cold before he sat back on his heels. 

"Molly didn't appreciate Chapman calling her names and manhandling her, any more than I did; but she had to take a few seconds to return to her feet after he pushed her to the ground. I beat her to the punch. By the time she was up, he was down, and as he kicked out in a rather pathetic effort to disable my knee, my dear Molly punted him as if he were a football."

Janine's eyes went comically wide. "You didn't?"

"She did," Sherlock affirmed. 

"Two years on the woman's football team at uni. Muscle memory is an interesting thing." Her ankle was at that horrible tingly stage where the ice pack was extremely uncomfortable, but not unbearable. All things considered, Molly thought she was holding up rather well. 

Sherlock lifted the ice pack and peeked under it. "Your ankle will be fine in a few days, but I'm nearly positive you've broken a toe."

"I concur with your diagnosis, Doctor Holmes." She saw him glance up as if checking to see if she was taking the piss. He actually did look worried about her, which made her want to reassure him. "I'll live. Trust me. I will, however, need to splint the toe. If you wouldn't mind, there's a medical kit on the-"

"Top shelf of the linen cupboard. I know."

"Do I even want to ask why you were in my linen cupboard?" It had been a long and difficult day, and Molly didn't have the energy to be irritated with him. She leaned her head back at an uncomfortable angle against the sofa cushion, and resigned herself to the inevitable conclusion that Sherlock had probably stuck his nose into everything in her flat at one point or another. Including her lingerie drawer. And her nightstand.

_Oh God, anywhere but the nightstand._

"Mrs Hudson offered to wash my sheets, so I gathered them for her."

"Oh, well, that's fine, then."

"I thought so," Sherlock offered as he disappeared down the short hall that lead to the bathroom and the only bedroom. Yet again, he either didn't recognize that she was being sarcastic, or he simply didn't care.

Molly plucked at her wrinkled gown, wondering what she could have possibly done to deserve any of this, when she caught Janine looking at her strangely. She scrambled to explain, "He keeps some sheets here. In case he needs to spend the night. Because mine are too scratchy. We don't--he doesn't--not together--I sleep on the sofa?"

She was fairly positive that she sounded less and less convincing or coherent the more words continued to pour out of her mouth.

Janine grimaced and patted Molly's leg, careful not to jostle her. "Oh, sweetie. Been there, done that."

Molly really had no clue how to respond to her.

"So you kicked Francis. Somewhere painful, I hope? And then what happened?"

Before she could answer, Sherlock returned. "Long story short, your Francis will probably have some bruised ribs in the morning. We were all very politely asked to leave and then escorted off the premises by two gentlemen who barely fit inside their very expensive suits and a large dog that appeared to be made mostly of teeth and angry growling."

He held the med kit out of reach when Molly tried to grab it. "Not until John gets here, I'm afraid. No use wrapping everything up when he's just going to unwrap it again."

"You called John?" She couldn't believe he would drag his friend away from his family for something so simple.

"No. I sent him a text from the car. He's caught up in traffic, but he's on the way."

"Sherlock, I am a doctor-"

"You told me yourself," he interrupted before Molly could develop a full head of steam. "You work with the dead, and John works with the living. Do you not remember that conversation?"

"Are you seriously using my own words against me?"

"Yes. Did it work?"

She ignored him and reached forward to adjust the ice pack. 

Janine put a throw pillow on the table and helped Molly lower her foot onto it. She handed the TV remote to Molly, then stood up and gestured toward the kitchen. "Since it doesn't sound as if any of us are going to get to bed anytime soon, how about you find something to watch and I'll go make us something to snack on?"

While she was gone, Sherlock set out to make Molly comfortable. She realized he must have felt responsible for her current predicament, because he was being uncharacteristically considerate of her needs.

He carefully removed the shoe she had still been wearing, then tossed it into the corner with the other one. He ignored her grumpy, "Those cost more than I make in a week!" 

With a challenging gleam in his eye, he toed off his own dress shoes and kicked them in the same direction. "There, feel better? Mine cost more than yours did."

He took off his tie and shoved it haphazardly into his tuxedo jacket pocket, then removed the jacket itself and draped it over the back of the sitting room chair. After a moment's hesitation, he bent down and pulled off his socks, tucking them into another jacket pocket. He dug his toes into her carpet and smirked. "Now we're on the same footing."

Molly groaned in response. Janine, who had just returned with a bowl of popcorn and several bottles of water, laughed.

"Don't encourage him!"

Sherlock continued to look far too proud of himself, and Molly wished she had another throw pillow in reach that she could toss at his head.

"Ugh, I need to get out of this dress. Janine, I know it's a lot to ask," Molly began.

"Not a problem at all." Janine unloaded her snack supplies on the coffee table before reaching out to take Molly's offered hand. 

Sherlock quickly intervened. "No."

For just one horribly exciting moment, Molly thought he was volunteering to help her himself.

"She stays on the couch until John has checked her over."

"Sherlock! I'm itchy and tired, and I want my pyjamas."

He turned the full force of those pale eyes on her, and Molly could feel her spine melting back against the sofa cushion even as her mouth opened in protest once more. "Please?"

"No. John said it would be best to keep you immobile as much as possible, until he's had a chance to examine you."

"For a broken toe?" That sounded overly cautious, especially for a man who had been an army doctor.

"I may have been a little . . . vague . . . in describing your injuries?"

"Oh, Sherlock, you didn't?" She had visions of John bursting through the door, closely followed by a pair of EMTS, or worse.

"Just humour him, Molly. It's not often Sherl worries about someone other than himself. Give him his moment."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something scathing in response, but he bit back his words; probably because Janine's snipe coincided with furthering his own agenda.

Still, Molly thought it was a bit harsh. She'd seen some of the lengths he had gone to in order to protect his friends. 

"Fine." She looked at the popcorn and bottled water, and grimaced. "But I'm going to need the pint of chocolate mint in the freezer if you're going to force me to stay like this."

Janine grinned. "On it."

By the time Janine came back with the ice cream and a spoon, Sherlock had eased onto the sofa beside Molly, and partially turned her so that she was leaning against him. It was a less awkward angle than she'd been seated in earlier. Her ankle was still elevated, but now she had proper back support. He put his arm along the back of the sofa so she had something to rest her head against if she wanted. Toby had finally decided it was safe enough to join his mistress on the sofa, and he curled up on the cushion next to her. It was rather nice and cosy, actually.

Other than the throbbing ankle and broken toe.

Molly watched Janine carefully, looking for any sign of jealousy or distaste on the other woman's face. Just because Molly knew this cuddly side of Sherlock's was just a momentary aberration brought on by guilt (and possibly as a means to show Janine that she was wrong with her little comment), didn't mean that Janine automatically understood there was nothing going on.

If she was upset by the display, she didn't show it.

Then again, she was probably familiar with a touchy-feely Sherlock, so all of this might seem normal to her. Mrs Hudson said he was very different with Janine when they had been together.

"So, what are we watching?" Janine asked as she arranged herself in what had temporarily become 'her' chair.

After a few minutes of deliberation, they agreed to watch an old black and white adaptation of an Agatha Christie novel.

The movie had just begun to get interesting when Sherlock barked, "She's guilty. Who faints at the first hint of accusation unless she's hiding something." 

Molly nearly jumped at the unexpected exclamation.

"Of course she's guilty. They're all guilty. That's the point." It was obvious from the sharpness in Molly's voice that the pain was growing steadily harder to ignore, and her exhaustion was apparent in the way she was leaning heavily against Sherlock. His arm tightened around her, gently rearranging them both to make her more comfortable.

Janine admonished Sherlock, "Shhh, you promised no deductions until at least the first dead body."

Sherlock huffed and glanced at his watch. "Shouldn't we put the peas back in the freezer?" 

Janine passed the popcorn bowl to Molly once it became apparent that Sherlock wasn't going to do it. "No, no, it's fine. I'll do it. No need to get up," Janine teased as she grabbed the bag and took it to the kitchen.

There was an urgent knock on the door; then John burst in, out of breath. "I'm here! Did you keep the leg immobilized? Did the bone break the skin? As soon as I've assessed her, we are leaving for hospital. No arguments, Sherlock!"

He froze just inside the flat, and finally got a good look at the domestic scene in Molly's sitting room. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Molly's hurt." Sherlock's tone made it clear that he was seconds away from commenting on John's lack of observational skills. He carefully gestured toward her injured foot, trying not to jostle her.

"Please, just look at my foot and reassure him that I'll live so I can splint my toes, and take something for the pain," Molly pleaded. She couldn't remember ever sounding so pathetic before.

"Damn it, Sherlock, you made it sound like she broke her leg and was threatening to go into hysterics. When I tried to get more details and advised you to take her straight to A&E, you completely ignored me. Did you call for an ambulance like I told you to?" John stomped across the small room and dumped his satchel next to the coffee table, continuing to glare at the unapologetic detective the entire time. "Sorry, Molly, I apologize for letting him distract me."

"Don't. He's a prat." 

Sherlock tensed behind her. "You're obviously delirious with pain, so I'll overlook that. And no, I didn't call for an ambulance. Who summons an ambulance for a broken toe?"

"You are an arse." John jabbed his finger in Sherlock's direction, then slid around the table to get a better look at Molly's foot. "Did you say you haven't taken anything for pain management?" 

"Bossy Boots refused to even let me take any paracetamol."

"If we can all move past the name calling? I knew you were on the way, and I didn't want her to take something that would interfere with your suggested treatment."

Molly rolled her eyes. "I told him I'm a doctor. I told him you didn't have to come all the way out here just to diagnose a broken toe."

"Well, I'm here now, so there's no harm in letting me take a look, is there?" John dropped to the floor next to the table and examined her ankle and toe, gingerly manipulating the metatarsals and delicate phalanges. Sherlock reached for her hand to give her something to hold on to as she winced in pain.

"I don't suppose you'll agree to going to emergency for an x-ray tonight?" John took one look at her face and shook his head. "No, I didn't think so."

"Molly-" Sherlock started in that low tone that usually had her melting into an agreeable mess when he said her name, but tonight she wasn't having any of it.

"Shut it, Sherlock. You don't get to talk. Or have you already forgotten about dragging me to Baker Street when you thought you needed stitches, and refusing to even consider going to hospital to get it looked at?"

John's eyes flicked from Sherlock to Molly and back, a bemused expression on his face. "Right. Looks like a simple fracture. X-rays would confirm it, but it will probably be fine to wait until tomorrow if you're sure you don't want to go tonight."

"I'll go in to work early in the morning, and visit X-ray if it will make you feel better." Molly would agree to just about anything if it meant dealing with her foot and getting to bed.

"It would. I'll go ahead and splint it, and I'll give you with something for the pain to help you sleep tonight. I can leave a script in case the pain becomes unbearable, if you'd like; but you should be able to manage with an OTC pain reliever as long as you don't put too much strain on the sprain or the break."

"Thank you, John." She wasn't sure if she meant for the pills, or for rushing over when he thought she was really hurt, or for just being John. All of them, probably.

John opened his satchel and began to sort through a zippered pocket. After a moment he handed her a small packet of pills clearly labelled 'Sample'. 

Janine had returned from the kitchen during John's examination, and had been quietly standing out of the way. "Is there anything I can do?" 

"Oh, hullo, I didn't realize anyone else was . . . Janine?" John did a double take when he recognized her. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Once Molly's settled, I hope you'll have time to catch me up on you and the family. It's been ages since I've managed to talk to Mary."

"Yeah, sure, I could . . . Yeah. Did Sherlock bring you?"

Molly saw him dart a glance at Sherlock's tuxedo trousers and Molly's gown, then at Janine's casual lounge wear, visibly confused.

"I did. But not tonight. She's been staying with Molly."

It was clear that John would have liked more details; but rather than explain, Molly simply took her pills and nodded. "Yep. Houseguest."

"I didn't realize you two even knew each other?"

Sherlock snapped, "Enough with all the small talk, I'm sure Molly would like to get to some rest. Can't we move things along?"

John looked contrite. "Right. Let's give those a few minutes to kick in first, then we'll take care of the painful bit. In the meantime, would anyone care to tell me how Molly broke her toe?"

"I kicked an arsehole in the ribs." It was rather blunt of her, and she grimaced as soon as the words left her lips.

He laughed, until he realized she was being serious. "Well, was it worth it at least?"

"I think so," Sherlock answered.

Janine nodded in agreement. "Definitely."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

She'd lain in bed for an hour or more, trying to force herself to sleep.

After John wrapped her ankle and splinted her toes, he'd asked to speak to Sherlock. 

Janine had taken that as a cue to help Molly get ready for bed. "It's the least I could do. It was my ex that caused this in the first place." 

It took forever to brush out her hair, but Janine had assured her that it would be better in the long run to break up the tangles and hairspray, and she'd have an easier time falling asleep.

She'd heard John and Sherlock leave ages ago. The sound of the front door closing had been faint; but even in her half-drowsy state, she had clearly recognized what it had meant.

That Sherlock had left without saying goodbye, again.

Her usual sleep shorts and vest were exactly what she needed after the hours spent wearing the pretty gown and the constrictive undergarments required to keep all of her parts in the optimal place and shape. The pain killers were doing their job, dulling the ache to a much more manageable level; although, they made Molly's mouth feel horribly dry and cottony.

Perhaps that was why she couldn't sleep? 

A glass of cool water seemed more and more necessary the longer she considered it.

With only a single sharp gasp of pain the when she put her injured foot down wrong, Molly managed to ease her bedroom door open and hobble down the hallway from her bedroom in the dark. There was no point to turning on the lights and disturbing Janine on the sofa; Molly had wandered through her flat in the middle of the night plenty of times.

She was halfway across the sitting room when a shadow detached itself from the dark shape of her sitting room chair.

"Why aren't you in bed?"

Molly only just managed to bite back a scream as she recognized the voice emanating from the tall form moving toward her.

"Are you trying to scare me to death?" she hissed.

"Quiet, or you'll wake up Janine," Sherlock grumbled in return. He reached her side and grabbed her arm, just above the elbow. "John suggested it might be a good idea to have someone around, in case you needed anything tonight."

"Well, lucky for me that Janine's here, then. Go home, Sherlock."

"When I said that John suggested someone should be around, what I meant was that John specifically told me it was my responsibility to make sure you were properly looked after tonight, as it was my fault you were injured in the first place. I would have argued that the fault lay more with Francis Chapman than with myself, but he left before I had the chance to clarify. Therefore, I'm stuck in your inadequately cushioned chair until tomorrow. Have you considered getting it reupholstered? Or possibly binning it entirely and finding something that wasn't originally designed as a torture device?" He tried to use his grip on her arm to urge her back down the hall toward her room. 

Molly resisted.

Even though they were whispering, Molly thought she heard Janine beginning to stir. She tugged her arm free, and shuffled past him toward her original destination. "Not here."

Once she was inside the kitchen, she flipped on the light and spent a moment squinting until her eyes adjusted. Sherlock was somewhere behind her, but she didn't particularly care to see at him at the moment.

"Stop whinging. I'm not making Janine move, and I'm not sleeping in the damn armchair just so you can placate John from the comfort of my bed. Go home or buck up, buttercup." For some reason, Molly found that irrationally funny. She snorted, then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, startled at the unexpected sound. It must have been the drugs John had given her, they were making her light headed and loopy.

She caught sight of Sherlock leaning against the door frame, smirking at her. He silently watched as she opened a cabinet and pulled out a plastic tumbler. "We could share your bed."

Molly dropped the tumbler and saw it bounce off the countertop toward the ground. Somehow, Sherlock managed to cross the tiny space and catch it before it hit the floor.

"Don't even joke about something like that!" Molly snatched the offered cup out of his hand.

He shrugged, clearly not fussed one way or the other, and returned to his earlier position in the doorway. "I wasn't whinging. I was merely stating the obvious. The chair and I are not compatible for a comfortable overnight stay. I didn't ask you to give up your bed, Molly. I wouldn't even have considered it had you offered. Not tonight."

She eyed him warily, then nodded. "You're right. You didn't. I apologize." 

Molly filled her tumbler with water from the tap, and began the return trip to her room. She paused just in front of him, waiting for Sherlock to move out of her way so she could get through the door without being forced to squeeze past him.

He stood there, looking down at her with a tender expression on his face. After a long moment, he leaned toward her. Molly was positive he was going to kiss her on the cheek, as he'd done several times in the past. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes began to flutter closed in anticipation, and she clutched her cup tighter against her chest. Then there was an audible snick as he flipped the light switch and the room went dark.

By the time Molly fully opened her eyes again, Sherlock had stepped back into the sitting room and out of her way. "Goodnight, Molly. Sleep well."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

_He was falling._

_"You're wrong, you know. You do count."_

_He'd asked for her help, and she promised him anything. Everything. He'd told her what to expect, what would happen; all the scenarios he'd worked through and their possible outcomes. It had all been planned and plotted already. All he needed was her help with the grand finale._

_"You've always counted and I've always trusted you."_

_Mycroft had his people waiting in various locations around Barts. A different specialized group for every contingency. All waiting for a signal. Waiting for Sherlock to die._

_"But you were right. I'm not okay."_

_They'd told her this was the most likely probability. That he would jump._

_That he would fall._

_That's why she was waiting here, specifically. A pair of faceless strangers with her, and the body bag that held the star of the second act. The doppelganger._

_If one of the other scenarios happened, they'd have to scramble to get to another location; but this was how Sherlock envisioned it, and this was where she would wait._

_"Tell me what's wrong."_

_They'd gone over everything half a dozen times, and Molly had run through the details in her head half a dozen more. The timing would have to be perfect. Once the text came through, the hand-picked cast of bystanders would jump into action. Crowd control, appropriate shock and horror reactions, blocking Sherlock from public view until he could be switched with the body double._

_She and her two accomplices would have just minutes to prep the body to mimic Sherlock's demise. Then it--he--would be ready to switch for the real thing._

_Her part wouldn't be over yet. Just faking the autopsy reports wouldn't be enough, obviously; that's why they needed the doppelganger. They couldn't risk another pathologist getting too close. But even with Molly handling the autopsy, there would have to be something to be seen and touched, something tangible. There would need to be a real body, actual organs to be examined, blood work sent to labs (the police would want to know if he'd been drugged, after all). And it would be up to Molly to make sure there were no discrepancies in his records._

_"Molly, I think I'm going to die."_

_She thought her heart had stopped when Sherlock said those words. And once he'd explained what was happening, she'd known he was right._

_Sherlock Holmes needed to die so that his spectre could go forth and bring down Jim Moriarty and his organization._

Everything began to speed up, moving lightning fast in her mind.

_Now, here she was. Waiting._

_Her stomach hurts. Her hands are shaking. It's nerves, she knows that. Once the signal comes, she'll be fine. Calm. Steady. She has to be. She can't mess up. Sherlock is depending on her._

_He's depending on a lot of people._

_Too many._

_What if someone makes a mistake?_

_What if it was Sherlock?_

_What if it was her?_

_Any little mistake could prove fatal, even the tiniest miscalculation._

_The phone she had clutched in her hand vibrates, a one word text._

_Molly rushes to the window, heart in her throat. She sees him fall past her, just as he and Mycroft had planned. But something is wrong. She feels it deep in her chest where her heart has already begun to break._

Molly whimpered--twisted in her bed until she was tangled in her sheets--as her unconscious mind fought to reassure her that it was just a dream. 

_She wants to scream, feels it beginning to build at the back of her throat._

_Looking down from the window, she can see him. He's splayed on the pavement, a broken doll. None of the chosen background players have had a chance to reach him yet. He's still. Too still._

_They'd planned to fake his death, gone over what would be necessary to make it look real in the eyes of a trained doctor. There should have been corpselike stillness. But this is different._

_This is wrong._

_Her heart is beating too hard, too fast. It's getting harder to breathe._

_She should be prepping the body to simulate the impact from the fall; blood and tiny bits of brain matter artfully applied to a dead canvas. She should be doing her job. Instead, she's glued to the window._

_John is there._

_There's blood._

_She expected that. It was part of the plan._

_It's spreading._

_It wasn't supposed to spread like that._

_This is wrong._

_Molly wasn't to be seen. She's to stay out of sight, so that no one can guess her involvement. She was never supposed to be on the main stage._

_She pushes past the two faceless men working on the body double, and runs out of the building without a second thought._

_Part of her thinks--hopes--that she's being silly, but she skids to a halt at his side and falls to her knees regardless. Someone tries to hold her back, just as they're trying to hold back John. Someone she vaguely recognizes, one of the men Sherlock had spoken to the night before._

_She pulls free and checks for his pulse, needing to reassure herself that it's all theatrics._

_She needs to help him. She's a doctor, she can help him._

_She can't think. Nothing makes sense. Her training is gone, years of med school knowledge missing as if wiped it clean._

_She should be doing something. She should be saving him._

_Her hands hover over his body, uncertain as to what she should do. Where she should touch. Finally, out of desperation, she leans down to confirm that he's not breathing._

_This is wrong._

_The blood continues to pool around his broken form, soaking into the fabric of her trousers. It's all over her hands._

_Blood._

_Sherlock's blood._

Her throat was burning when she woke up. She could hear the echo of Sherlock's name in the room, and it didn't take her long to realize that it must have been her own screams that roused her. Someone was holding her, rocking her gently in the darkness. His long fingers were softly petting her hair; his breath warmed her temple as he continued to repeat, "It's all right, you're safe. I'm here."

Her bedroom was dark, but the door was open and the light in the hall was on. Someone, Janine from the silhouette, stood in the doorway. She was fidgeting, her weight shifting from foot to foot. "Is she okay?"

Sherlock stopped rocking her, although he continued to hold her in his arms. "She's fine. Molly's just had a nightmare. Haven't you, Molly?" 

She could only see part of his face in the light from the hall, but it was enough to know that he was looking down at her. Watching her. "Ye-yes. I'm sorry for waking you both."

"No worries." Janine was trying to sound cheerful, but it was clear she was concerned. "Do you need anything? Anything I can do? Maybe a glass of warm milk?"

Before Molly could answer, Sherlock pulled her tighter against his chest, pressing her cheek against his dress shirt. His body heat began to chase away the cold dread left over from her dream. "Everything's under control now. You can go back to sleep." 

"If you're sure?" Janine hesitated.

"Absolutely. Goodnight." Sherlock's tone was polite but firm. After a moment, Janine nodded and walked away.

Once the doorway was empty, he gently lowered Molly back down to her pillow, as if she were a precious child. "Better now?"

Molly nodded, more than a little embarrassed that she'd woken everyone up. She'd had nightmares before, perhaps a handful of times that she could remember over the years. Hell, she'd even had this particular one before, or at least something very similar it. She'd almost always been alone before, though. There had been one time when she'd still been with Tom, and he'd slept through the entire thing. Even when she'd sat up in bed, gasping for air with her heart in her throat. 

Yet again, she blamed the pills John had given her. If she hadn't been groggy and drugged, she might have woken up before . . . the end. Before the blood.

"Want to tell me about it?" Sherlock's voice was low and soothing, soft enough not to carry to Janine in the sitting room. Deep enough to make Molly want to weep so soon after seeing him unnaturally pale and still in her dream. "Your nightmare?"

"No."

He was still hovering over her. As emotional as she was right now, his concern was nearly enough to break her. "Was it about Chapman? Because he won't touch you again."

"No, it wasn't him."

Sherlock was still and quiet, and she foolishly thought he was going to let it go. "Was it about me?"

Molly rolled away from him, laying on her side with her back to him. She couldn't do this now, couldn't look at him without wanting to reach out and reassure herself that it had all been a dream. Sink her fingers into his hair and pull him close, taste his breath with her lips to prove that he was alive and well. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tugged at the covers so she could burrow deeper into the warmth of her bed. "I'm tired. I think I'm ready to go back to sleep now. Goodnight, Sherlock."

There was a moment of silence, then she felt the bed shift as he stood up. Molly held her breath until she heard him turn the hall light off and then the quiet click of her bedroom door being closed. She exhaled in relief, and felt the tension begin to ease out of her body as she relaxed.

Then the bed dipped again.

Sherlock slid under the covers and curled his body against her back. Before she had a chance to react, he had his arm draped over her waist and was pulling her snug against him. "Tell me about your nightmare. I heard you calling out my name. I want to know why. Tell me what happened."

Molly tried to shake her head and realized that he'd somehow managed to tuck her under his chin. "I don't want to."

His voice rumbled in her ear. "I know you don't, but you'll feel better once you let it out. It will only eat at you if you hold it in. Tell me. Let . . . let me ease the burden for a little while. You can be strong, independent Molly again in the morning."

She bit her lower lip, feeling her protective walls beginning to crumble under his gentle onslaught.

"Please," he whispered against her hair.

She drew in a deep breath and held it until her lungs began to burn, then exhaled in a rush. "I couldn't help you."

"When?" Something about the way he asked and the tension in his body against her back made her suspect he already knew what she meant.

"When you came to me, asking for my help, at Barts. Everything was planned, every detail in place, but something went wrong." She had to stop to swallow several times, afraid that she would start crying before she managed to finish if she wasn't careful. "I saw you fall. Right past me. You fell, and then you were so still."

His fingers began to move against her stomach. Not much, just soft little circles that helped pull her focus away from the memory of the dream.

"There was so much blood on the pavement. And I tried to help you. I tried to save you, but it was too late. There was nothing I could do." She drew in another deep breath, one that could have been a soft sob if she didn't have his touch to ground her.

"But you did. You helped. You kept me safe," he reassured her. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, long enough for her to begin to feel drowsy again. Then his breath stirred the hair around ear as he spoke, "Not just that day at Barts, either. You've kept me safe and alive more times than you can possibly know, Molly."

His words confused her. She tried to turn in his arms, but he tightened his hold around her waist and refused to let her.

"When I was shot, I heard your voice. I saw you in my mind palace. You told me what I needed to do to stay alive long enough for the doctors to save me."

"That wasn't me," Molly protested. "That was you. That was your knowledge of-of anatomy and gunshot wounds, wearing my face."

"Oh, Molly," he rumbled indulgently. "You don't understand, do you? Yours was the first face I saw, your voice was the first my mind sought when I began to panic. The first and the most important. Anderson came in a bit later. And Mycroft. And, strangely enough, Moriarty."

"You are not helping."

He huffed. "I beg to differ. You aren't shaking any more, and you no longer sound as if you're going to break into tears at the smallest provocation."

"Get out." Even though the words were cranky, she made no move to extract herself from his hold. 

"You're not listening to the meaning behind what I'm saying, Molly. I was terrified that I was truly going to die, more so even than that day I launched myself from the roof of Barts. I was dying, and you were the one my subconscious latched onto as my biggest hope for survival. You brought me back, gave me the fortitude to listen to the others and survive. It wasn't the first time you've appeared in my mind palace to offer advice; although never for something so vital before, thankfully. I doubt it will be the last." 

His fingers stilled their movement, and came to a rest against her stomach. She could feel their soothing warmth through the thin material of her vest. "Do you honestly think I would have chosen you to play such an important role if there was any doubt that you would keep me safe?"

Molly felt like crying again, for a wholly different reason this time. Instead, she reached down to cover his hand, lacing her fingers between his. "Thank you, Sherlock."

She felt his lips ghost against her hair before he replied. "You're welcome, Molly."

When she woke up the next morning, he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

There were worse ways to spend one's lunch hour than humouring the macabre whims of Sherlock Holmes--Molly could think of several off the top of her head--but she would have still preferred to be digging into a serving of sesame chicken and the last few chapters of the mystery novel she'd been reading. She wanted to finish it before Sherlock noticed it laying about her flat and spoiled the ending for her.

Instead, she was trudging up the stairs at 221B Baker Street, carrying a heavy cardboard box that was just large enough to be unwieldy. It was slow going as she was trying to be extra careful on the stairs; it was the first day she'd left the flat without wrapping her still tender ankle. 

The annoying cardboard box concealed the distinctive cooler Barts favoured for transport of human biological materials and organs. Molly thought it would be best not to be seen wandering around London carrying something so obvious.

Obvious or not, the cooler was still far more practical than the Tesco bag Sherlock had tried to use one evening when she caught him "borrowing" a foot shortly after they'd first met. That was long before someone-- _Mycroft_ \--had negotiated a small experiment allowance for access to donated organic materials. Not that Sherlock paid any attention to the agreed upon limits. 

Molly was always careful to get permission from Mike Stamford before letting anything out of her sight, and Mike seemed content to humour the detective. Rule bending was one thing, but she didn't particularly feel like risking her job for Sherlock on a semi-regular basis by outright breaking them. She preferred to limit that sort of thing to the strictly life or death situations.

The door to his rooms wasn't open; and Molly realized there was no way she'd be able to turn the knob and maintain her hold on the cardboard box at the same time. 

"Hello. Sherlock?"

Not a single sound from inside in reply.

"Sherlock, are you in?" Still nothing. Molly began to mutter to herself as she contemplated dumping the box on the stoop and going back to Barts. "You better well be, after making me trek over here like a bloody postman." 

If she didn't already have a broken toe, she would have considered kicking the door. 

Perhaps Mrs Hudson would be willing to hold on to it until Sherlock came home. 

She was just getting ready to head back down the stairs when the door opened. Her annoyance with Sherlock was temporarily forgotten when she saw John standing in the doorway. 

"John! It's lovely to see you again. Better circumstances this time. I hope. I mean, I don't really know why you're here, do I? Could be something horrible, I suppose." She shifted the box, trying to use her hip to help support it somewhat. She'd prefer to go inside and set it down; but John was still standing in the doorway, and didn't seem to be likely to move in the next few moments.

"No, it's fine. Nothing going on here, really. I didn't realize Sherlock was expecting you?" He half-turned to look into the sitting room, and she could see Sherlock in his chair, staring off into nothing the way he often did when he was deep in thought.

"He sent a text this morning. Insisted he needed two hands, left only, and a liver positively riddled with cirrhosis if I had one in stock. In stock," Molly stressed the last two words. "As if I were a grocer. His highness is far too busy to come get them himself, so . . . Here I am." She lifted the box a bit higher, hoping John would get the hint.

He didn't. He remained in the doorway, frowning down at the box as if it contained the plague. "They just let you leave the morgue with human body parts, no questions asked?"

"Oh, no," she rushed to reassure him. "There are plenty of questions, don't worry. It's just that once you mention the name Sherlock Holmes, a lot of those questions tend to dry up. Especially if it means he's not going to be coming in and upsetting everyone else in the lab. Again. I mean, I'm used to him, and so are you and Mike, obviously. But you know how he tends to rub . . . well, pretty much everyone else he runs into at Barts the wrong way." She and John shared a smile.

"So, how's the toe?"

Chit-chatting in the stairway it was, then. Great. Molly moved the box back to her hip and tried not to grimace. "Better. Still hurts, which is to be expected; but I've been up and about since the next morning."

"Please tell me you didn't walk all the way from St. Barts?" He gave her a disapproving look that she assumed he'd perfected in his exam room over the years, something he would use on a patient that had disobeyed doctor's orders. Technically, she wasn't his patient. And, technically, she hadn't even done anything wrong.

"I came in a car. It's waiting outside."

That frown reappeared again, only this time it was directed at the oblivious detective, who hadn't moved a muscle since the door opened. "I hope he's planning to pay you back for the cab fare."

"It's not a cab. I agreed to let Sherlock hire a service to ferry me around for a few days; and in return, he agreed to stop hovering as if someone had threatened to revoke his godfather privileges if he didn't keep me from overdoing it and reinjuring my foot." The expression on her face made it perfectly clear that she knew exactly who was responsible for that.

John had the sense not to deny it. "He told you, then?"

"He did," she agreed, still visibly annoyed. "But only after I'd already figured out something odd was going on. There was no reason for him to be hovering about my flat and the lab, being solicitous and polite. He offered to fetch coffee and my lunch, of all things. It creeped out the intern."

"How long did he last before you called him on it?"

"I took lunch around two that day, so I'd estimate around eight hours before I caught on. Really, John, using your own daughter for blackmail?" Molly admonished. She might have even wagged her finger at him if she hadn't needed to shift the box to the other hip, as the corner had been digging into her and it was starting to get painful.

"It was Mary's idea." He shamelessly grinned. "Blame her."

Molly made a mental note to give Mary a call later. "Don't think that's going to get you off the hook, mister. You're sti-"

"Get out of the way, John." Sherlock's voice startled her, cutting her off in mid-word and nearly causing her to drop the box. 

John grabbed it, and she gratefully let him take it from her. 

"You've forced her to stand out there long enough, boring her to death with inanities." Sherlock gracefully unfolded himself from his chair.

"Hello, Sherlock." Even though he had yet to address her directly, Molly still felt the need to offer a cheerful greeting.

"Hmm," was his only acknowledgement that she'd spoken. He gleefully slapped his hands together and gestured toward the kitchen. "Put it on the table. Let's see what my pathologist brought us, shall we?"

And just like that, she was forgotten. Molly sighed and thought about leaving, but her foot really was beginning to hurt and the idea of walking down the stairs right that second was utterly unappealing. The car would be fine for a few more minutes, surely?

Plus, she needed a moment to process Sherlock calling her 'my pathologist'. It was oddly possessive of him. And the way he'd said it, just a throw away comment that wasn't even directed at her? Not meant as false flattery, then. So why had he said it?

She crossed the sitting room and leaned her bum against Sherlock's chair so that she could see the two men unpacking the box. "I got the hands all right, but we didn't have any livers. Sorry."

Without turning, Sherlock waved his hand near his head, as if smacking away a gnat. "It was a long shot. I don't need it for this case anyway."

John stopped breaking down the cardboard box and stared at his friend. "You just wanted a liver, then. For personal reasons. Because why?"

"Everyone has to have a hobby." Sherlock pulled a plastic baggy out of the cooler and held it up toward the light. The hand inside was neatly severed at the wrist, and had been carefully packed in dry ice for transport.

It could have been a trick of the light, but John appeared to take on a sickly pallor.

Molly turned away to hid her amusement, and realized that the sitting room was even more of a mess than usual. Mrs Hudson would have a fit. Instinct had her straightening a pile of books that appeared to have been discarded willy-nilly on the floor, some still open. She leaned over the chair to grab a few pieces of paper that Sherlock had left on the end table near the fireplace, hoping to use them as bookmarks on the off chance that he was marking those spots for a reason.

The hand she'd braced on the back of the chair slipped, and slid down the leather until she nearly fell into the seat. Her fingers encountered something sticking out from between the cushions. She'd already begun to tug the dark material loose before she fully comprehended what she was touching.

A quick glance toward the kitchen told her that John and Sherlock were still engrossed in their discussion about body parts and hobbies.

As quietly as possible, Molly finished pulling the wadded up ball of glittery black silk free. It was undoubtedly the scarf that Sherlock had borrowed from Mrs Hudson. The one that Molly had worn the night she'd had far too much to drink and ended up tucked into Sherlock's bed. That one that he claimed had been ruined.

_So why did he still have it? And why was it hidden there, of all places?_

"Hand me that bucket."

Molly jerked at the sound of Sherlock's voice, shoving the scarf back between the chair cushions in a way that would have surely made her look guilty if either of the men had been paying her any attention. She turned just in time to see Sherlock disappearing down the short hallway toward his bathroom, presumably, with a bucket full of ice and a plastic wrapped left hand. 

She knew, without a doubt, that if Sherlock were to get a good look at her right then, he would be able to read her like a book and somehow know that she'd found the scarf. It probably meant nothing to him. Surely he'd just tucked it into side of the chair the night she'd stayed, forgotten it existed, and made up some excuse to appease Mrs Hudson. But one look at her face and he'd realize that _she_ was clearly over thinking things; then there would be days of awkwardness and tip-toeing around each other, and Molly really, really needed to get out of Baker Street. Immediately.

"So, I'll just be going then," she called to John, already gathering her jacket around herself and heading toward the door. "Tell Sherlock I said he's welcome, when he comes up for air, won't you? I mean, we both know he won't actually say thank you, but a bit of a reminder about using his manners can't hurt, can it?"

John held up a hand to delay her. She stopped her panicked rush out of Sherlock's rooms, and regretted it almost immediately. 

John glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock wasn't going to reappear from the bathroom right that second, then moved to her side. "Listen, Molly," he started, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn't carry down the short hall. "Could I have a word?"

"Of course." Whatever he wanted to talk about, he didn't seem to want Sherlock to overhear. That couldn't be a good sign, could it?

"Look, I know this is a delicate subject--and I wanted to discuss it with you earlier--but I hadn't seen you before the other night at your flat. That didn't really seem the time, did it? And the lab at Barts isn't really the place for this sort of thing, is it?"

Her earlier confusion started to turn into concern. "Are you okay? Are you or Mary sick? Bethany? Do you need me to look at something for you? I'm sure there are probably tests I can run-"

"No, no." John quickly shook his head. "Nothing like that. It's about Sherlock."

"What did he do this time?" 

The furtive way he kept looking over his shoulder and was practically whispering was starting to make her nervous.

"I spoke to Mrs Hudson a few weeks ago."

"Oh God," Molly groaned. She had an unfortunate feeling that she knew exactly where this conversation was going.

"She said that you and Sherlock, well, that you . . ." He came to an awkward stop, mouth hanging open as he searched for the right words.

"That he and I what? That we were together? That we broke up? That we had drunken, kinky sex all over the flat?" Her voice had started to rise toward the end of her little rant, and John held his finger to his lips to shush her.

Molly forced herself to calm down and speak quieter. "What, exactly, did she tell you?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah. Not in so many word, but pretty much all of that."

"We weren't. We didn't. And do you really think Sherlock would risk messing up his experiments and all this-" She gestured wildly around the messy flat that Sherlock still insisted he had an organizational system for, even though absolutely no one believed him. "-by having sex on it?"

"When you put it that way." John chuckled and shook his head. He looked a bit relieved, in all honesty. "It did seem a little out of character for Sherlock." He caught the narrowing of her eyes and blanched. "And you, of course. You're not the kind of girl--woman--who would-"

"Quit while you're ahead, John."

Molly wasn't sure which conversation was going to top the list of Most Awkward I've Ever Had To Endure: the current one or the memorable exchange with Mrs Hudson the morning she tried to sneak out of the building. Mrs Hudson's had the bondage implication, true, and that made it a really good contender; but, John looked as if he wasn't done talking, so there was still a chance he'd pull something equally horrific out of nowhere.

"So what did happen, then?"

"Nothing scandalous. He needed my help with a case. I ended up too inebriated to get home, and he let me sleep it off here." Embarrassing, but true.

"And the other night? At your place?"

Molly clenched her teeth and spit out, "Case."

"And Janine. Was she there for the case, too?" 

"In a way. It's complicated." 

He nodded. "Yeah. I can imagine. Actually, no I can't. I just don't see how you and Janine and-"

"Are you done now?" Molly cut him off, then flinched at how rude she'd been. "Sorry. It's just that I came over here on my lunch hour, and I really need to get back to Barts."

John held out his hand to forestall her departure yet again. "Just one more thing. I like to think that you and I are friends. Perhaps not the closest of confidants, but still friends." He waited for her nod--hesitant and a bit suspicious as it was--to continue. "And I know you and Mary are. I've heard all about you two giggling and gossiping through a few lunch dates."

This time her nod was much more sure. She liked Mary. 

Other than Meena, there weren't that many people she really connected with. That was part of why it had been so hard to end her relationship with Tom. When they'd split, she'd lost his family and their mutual friends as well. Lost that feeling of belonging, of being part of a group; something she hadn't really had since her father died. Her new friendship with Mary had helped ease that ache a little bit. She knew that Mary and John had gone through a rough patch for several months; and even though Mary hadn't wanted to talk about it much, Molly liked to think that knowing she was available to listen might have helped ease Mary's ache a little, too. 

John checked to make sure they were still alone, then spoke again, "It's just . . . Well, Sherlock is different. Some might even say special."

"I am well aware of that."

"Right. Yeah. Of course you are. You've known him even longer than I have." He nodded several times. She thought he might have been trying to work out exactly how he wanted to phrase what he wanted to say next. "It's just, well, I've seen the way he treats you. And the way you look at him, when you think he's not paying attention."

Oh God. This was definitely going straight to the top of the Awkward Conversation list. Zooming right past bondage and Mrs Hudson. 

Molly flushed, utterly embarrassed. "Point?"

"Sherlock doesn't do things the way other people do. He doesn't feel things, like you and me." Once again John looked as if he were struggling to find the right words. 

_Probably trying to be tactful. He's doing a piss poor job of it so far_ , Molly thought, not feeling at all charitable at the moment.

"He once told me that the brain was the only thing that mattered, everything else was transport." He waited for her to react in some way; and when he didn't get whatever he was expecting, he continued. " _Everything._ "

Obviously that wasn't completely true. Everyone in the bloody UK knew about him and Janine, and that certainly hadn't been just _transport_. Not that she was comparing her relationship with Sherlock to his with Janine. Because they were nothing alike. Sherlock's dalliance with Janine notwithstanding, he had never shown any interest in Molly as a female. Not legitimately, at any rate. Yes, he had sincerely complimented her appearance at the Barrett party; but that wasn't nearly the same thing as being attracted to her.

She cleared her throat and tried not to look flustered. "That sounds like something he would say. But I still don't get the point you're trying to make."

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "Mrs Hudson was confused, obviously, but she only jumped to that conclusion because she knows--we all know--that you have feelings for him. It's impossible not to notice that you'd be open to a relationship with him. But Sherlock isn't wired that way. He can't do relationships like a normal person, even his friendships are skewed and completely self-serving.

"I'll admit, when I first saw him with Janine, I thought he might have changed. But it was all play acting. He didn't feel anything for her. I don't think he can feel things like that, not really. He put on a good show, but in the end that's all it was. A show. He uses people. Sometimes in the most dreadful of ways. If he wanted something bad enough, and if he thought he could get it from you, then I have no doubt he'd use you, too. Perhaps even go so far as to give you what he knows you've wanted for years."

She knew John was coming from a good place, that he probably thought he was legitimately opening her eyes to something she'd wilfully been overlooking, which was why she didn't flat out tell him to shove off. The temptation was there, but she managed to suppress it with several deep breaths and stabbing her nails into her own palms a few times.

After a quick double check to make sure Sherlock was still playing around with his new toy in the bathroom, she turned the full force of her anger on John and hissed, "Have you lost your mind? Have sleepless nights and new fatherhood melted everything in your skull to the point where you think anything that you just told me was appropriate? Yes, he uses people. I'm fully aware that he uses me, and if I truly wanted to tell him to fuck off, I would have long before now. But to think that he would _sleep_ with me just to get his hands on something from the morgue? Or that I would be desperate enough to let him, that I'd give it up without any sort of emotional understanding? That's disgusting. He's always getting you to do stuff for him, far more often than me. So how many times has he slept with you?"

John reddened, flushing up to his ears. _In shame_ , she hoped. But she wasn't done with him yet.

"First, what does or does not happen between Sherlock Holmes and me is none of your business. Second, I am not an idiot, I know he will never love me, and I have accepted that. And I really wish everyone else would move on, and stop with the 'poor lovesick Molly' garbage. Third, even if I haven't given up, even if I am still mooning over him, and have a scrapbook full of 'Mrs Molly Holmes' scribbles hidden in a shoebox under my bed, it is none of your concern."

Molly put her hands on her hips and leaned into John's personal space to emphasize the point she was about to make. "Finally, I don't think you know him as well as you think you do. Sherlock's far too stubborn to admit that he's just as human as the rest of us, but it doesn't take a consulting detective to deduce he's full of it."

She pointed toward the kitchen. "Think about it. For someone who tells people his body is only transport for his brain, he's a bit of a hedonist, isn't he? He's got a sweet tooth. Consider the sugar in his coffee, all those biscuits he insists Mrs Hudson bring up here with his tea, the way he practically inhales anything you put on his plate and finishes with dessert once he's solved a case."

Her finger shifted in the direction of his bedroom. "Let's talk about what he keeps next to his skin. His shirts are Dolce and Gabbana. His dressing gowns are silk. He insists on sleeping on sheets that are one hundred percent Egyptian cotton. I know because I have a set in my linen cupboard for when he decides to drop in unannounced for a kip; so you can stuff whatever thought just popped into your brain. I saw that look."

"I didn't-I wasn't," John stuttered in denial.

Molly ignored him. She was on a roll now, and she wasn't going to let him distract her. "He's not content to just meet the barest of needs for survival. Our Sherlock likes to surround himself in comfort and luxuries, doesn't he? Does that really sound like someone who only believes his body is transport?" She spit the last word out as if it were a piece of rotten fruit.

"You didn't see him the night before the Fall, not like I did. The look on his face. It broke my heart, John. I will never tell another living soul the details of what I saw and heard that night; but believe me, he does feel. Sometimes . . . Sometimes, I think, he feels far too much, and that scares him. Think about how overwhelming it can get for you and me, now multiply that by a hundredfold, and that's Sherlock. It seems like every single time he lets himself start to care about someone or something, someone else comes along and tries to use that attachment against him."

She shook her head, her earlier anger fading away to be replaced with near overwhelming sadness for Sherlock. "No wonder he thinks sentiment is a weakness. For him, it really is. He tries to cut himself off from people and emotions because he's trying to protect himself. And us. He thinks he can't be what we want, so why even try? I'm sure he'll deny it if you ever dared to ask; but it's easy for anyone who knows you both to see that you're not just his friend, you're probably the closest thing he has to a brother. A real one. Not like Mycroft. I mean, Mycroft is his actual brother, obviously, and I'm sure they love each other in some sort of weird Holmes' boys immature, picking at each other as if they were still children, sort of way, but-"

"Molly." 

"Right. Sorry. My point is that he may not do relationships like, well, other people; but you can't tell me that a man would throw himself off a roof to protect his friends if they didn't truly matter to him."

John stared at her for a long moment, and Molly began to feel like she was a specimen under a microscope. "What?" she finally asked.

"You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

"A bit. Probably too much." She bit her lower lip and wondered if she should stop talking, or if it would be better to just get it out in the open once and for all. "Look, it takes a special person--a saint, probably--to put up with everything that _is_ Sherlock Holmes, without wanting to rip their own hair out. And Lord knows, I will never be a saint. But he's changed since he met you, you didn't know what he was like before. He's opened up and let himself feel. He's got friends now, people he truly cares about. Loves, even. He may not be able to say the words, he may not even be able to admit it to himself on anything more than a superficial level; but you know it. Don't you? When you first met him, did you think that was even possible? And look at him now."

He swallowed hard and lowered his head for a moment, collecting his thoughts. She was about to apologize, horrified at the way she'd gone off on a long-winded rant, when he raised his hands in defeat. 

"You're right. I do know it. I suppose if it's possible for the wanker to let me in, then who knows what else he's capable of. I'm sorry for even bringing it up. I'm utter rubbish at this sort of thing, obviously."

"Yeah, you kind of are." She offered a small smile, and reached out to pat his arm. "But I forgive you, anyway."

"I am a little disappointed in you, though." John looked very serious.

Molly's heart fell, and she quickly drew her hand back.

"You're a doctor, Molly. You've earned that title. Wear it proudly."

"What?"

He put both hands on her shoulder and shifted his head until he could look her square in the eye. "Those scrapbook scribbles should read 'Doctor Molly Holmes'. Or, even better, how about 'Mr Sherlock Hooper'?"

"I hate you, John," Molly giggled. Relief made her feel giddy.

He stepped back and grinned at her, pleased that she was no longer upset. "Fair enough. You should come over for dinner next week. Bethany's grown so much since you last saw her."

Just then Sherlock stepped into view, pulling off a latex glove with a snap. "Molly's still here?"

"I'm just leaving, Sherlock." She turned her attention back to John for a moment. "Tell Mary to give me a call, and we'll work something out. Oh, and tell her I'm dying to babysit if you two would like a night to yourselves."

"I can pretty much guarantee we will be taking you up on that, _Doctor_."

"I really, really do hate you," Molly grumbled, trying not to laugh. 

As she made her way down the stairs, she heard Sherlock ask, "What did you do to Molly?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

If she wasn't careful, Molly was going to get used to being chauffeured around London. Contrary to what she told John the other day, she hadn't been sure that Sherlock had actually hired a service, per se. Her suspicions had been confirmed the next day when she made her way out of her building and discovered the surly driver who had nearly scared her half to death the day she'd first met Anthea.

She had no idea how Sherlock had managed to arrange to have Mycroft's minions shuttling her around, but Molly found herself starting to enjoy it. There was a car waiting to drive her to and from work. All she had to do for a ride at any other time was send a text, and a car would be around in under thirty minutes. It made her feel rather important, actually.

Molly couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock had over Mycroft this time. Surely Mycroft hadn't fibbed to his parents again?

The car pulled up in front of her building, and she leaned forward to say good evening to Mr Surly. He nodded in reply. This time there wasn't a sneer thrown her way, and Molly decided to count that as a minor victory. She was wearing him down, another meeting or four and she was fairly confident she might even get a verbal acknowledgement out of him.

With one final reminder of when she needed to be at Barts the following day, Molly slid across the backseat, out of the car, and onto the pavement. As she let herself into her building and walked up the stairs to her flat, she wondered if Janine was still in residence. Not that she had a reason to expect Janine to have left, or that she wanted her to move out; but Molly had essentially lived alone since her second year of uni. Having another person staying in the flat for so long was throwing Molly's equilibrium off. Tom had spent the night plenty of times, but they hadn't quite reached the point of moving in together; and Sherlock rarely spent more than two days straight holed up in her room when he needed to hide away from something. Janine had been there all day and night, every day for two weeks.

At some point she had stopped feeling like an awkward houseguest and more like a comfortable roommate; and that was what was bothering Molly the most.

She really did not want to like Janine. Would have preferred to hate her, if she was being honest with herself, and Molly was well aware that made her sound like the pettiest cow on the planet. 

Janine had been the woman to thaw Sherlock's oft-rumoured-to-be-missing heart. Yes, he said he'd only been dating her (and become engaged to her) for a case, and he'd put an awful lot of time and effort into avoiding her some nights; but Molly knew he wouldn't have maintained a friendship with Janine if he didn't like her at least a little.

And then there were the tabloids. The salacious, borderline explicit accounts of Sherlock and Janine's intimate encounters had been on nearly every news stand for two weeks straight. And most telling of all, Sherlock hadn't denied a single bit of it.

Sherlock didn't do casual sex. Until Janine, she didn't think he did any sort of sex. John had said that Sherlock didn't care about Janine at all, but Molly knew that wasn't true. He may not have loved her, and he had definitely used her; but he'd been spending enough evenings at Molly's place since Janine moved in that it was obvious he still had some sort of feelings for her. Why else would he be hanging around so much?

Janine seemed nice. She was beautiful. She was annoyingly kind, but with just enough of a bitchy streak to be fun to hang around with. Why couldn't she be a horrible, puppy kicking jerk? That would have made things so much easier for Molly.

What was it about Janine that had drawn Sherlock to her? Why couldn't he find it, whatever it was, in Molly? And why did he still have the power to make her feel inadequate after all these years?

Ugh.

She made a face as she climbed the last flight of stairs, utterly disgusted with herself.

Her unhealthy attraction to him had been so much easier to ignore when Sherlock had no interest in intimacy with anyone. Then she could lie and make herself feel better by saying, "It's not me, specifically, that he's not into. He's not into anybody."

Strangely enough, she'd actually been content with her life until all this Chapman business had been dumped in her lap. No, scratch that, the trouble had started even before Sherlock had talked her into having Janine as a houseguest. The night she'd played dress up to distract the barman. That's when everything started to go wrong again. Up until that point, she'd been happy enough. She'd started dating again, started working on another paper to publish, been thinking about taking up knitting . . .

Shite. Meena was right. Her life was boring as hell.

Ugh. Again.

She unlocked her door and tossed her bag in the direction of the sitting room chair. There was faint music playing in the kitchen, which answered the question of whether or not Janine was still around.

Molly hung up her jacket and went to say hello.

Janine had started to make dinner from the appearance of things. However, her attention was currently focused on her phone rather than the pot that was beginning to boil over on the stove. Molly rushed across the kitchen and lowered the heat on the burner.

"Something wrong? Are you okay?"

The other woman jumped and nearly dropped her phone. Molly realized Janine must have been too distracted to have heard her come in.

"Oh, Molly, I am so sorry. I'm so sorry to have dragged you into this mess." Janine looked ill, as if she were about to start crying.

Molly felt her stomach drop. "What is it? Are you all right? Did something happen to Sherlock?"

"No, no," Janine rushed to reassure her. "It's . . . Here, see for yourself." She glanced at her phone, slid her finger across the screen a few times, and then passed it to Molly.

The first thing she saw was a picture of herself getting out of a car in front of Sherlock's building. She was pulling the box of body parts from Barts out of the backseat. The photographer must have been somewhere across the street, as the door to 221B was plainly visible. 

She looked up at Janine, confused. "Where did this come from?"

"There's more. Slide down."

The next picture was Molly coming out of the building, looking very pleased with herself.

Another was Molly getting out of the car near Barts, later that day. The photographer had obviously followed her from Sherlock's.

A further swipe provided a wall of text, but no more pictures.

It only took a few sentences for Molly to figure out the sender was Francis Chapman. He'd had someone watching Sherlock for several days, probably since the run in at the Barrett party, if not earlier. The photos had been sent to Janine as proof that her White Knight Detective was nothing more than a cheating arse, who had taken up with a cheap harlot the moment he'd tucked Janine away in the modern day equivalent of an ivory tower. There she was, supposedly leaving Sherlock's love nest after an embarrassingly short lunch time hook-up. 

Couldn't Janine see how Sherlock was using her? He obviously didn't care about her if he was already screwing another woman behind her back. 

He was looking for her. It was only a matter of time before he figured out where Sherlock had hidden her. He knew she hadn't been back to her flat or the cottage in days, and she wasn't staying with Sherlock anymore. He was very unhappy to hear that she'd been sleeping there for a time. 

If she came back to him on her own, and willingly accepted her punishment, then they could put all of this unpleasantness behind them. 

Pretend it never even happened. He'd treat her like a princess. No, a queen.

But if he had to come find her himself, her punishment would be so much worse.

Molly swallowed back the bile that had been creeping up her throat. She handed the phone to Janine. "What does he mean? About the punishment?"

"I'm not sure." Janine's voice wavered as she eased into one of the chairs at Molly's little kitchen table. "He had started to have some control issues that were beginning to make me uneasy. That's why I broke it off with him." She set the phone down on the table and pushed it away as if she didn't want to be near it anymore. "He wanted me to say and do some things that I was uncomfortable with. Some things that seemed as if . . . as if they'd be very degrading for me. And he was very reluctant to take no for an answer."

"Did-did he hurt you?" Molly leaned against the counter, horrified at what Janine's answer might be.

Janine vehemently shook her head. "No. But something about it just pinged on my radar, you know? As if the potential were there? I could tell that he wanted to be manly and dominate, but he couldn't quite pull it off. And that, even more than me saying no, made him angry. And dangerous. Unstable, maybe? He snapped out of it when I insisted I wanted to go home, tried to play it off. Offered to buy me earrings to match the bracelet he'd given me. Like I was some kind of . . . Anyway, I ended it that night."

She gestured toward the phone and grimaced. "And now I've got you caught up in it."

Molly had no idea how to reassure her. It wasn't as if Molly were happy to have a weirdo following her around, taking her picture. But that wasn't Janine's fault.

It was quiet enough in the flat for them both to hear the doorknob in the sitting room rattle. After a brief, oppressively silent moment, the front door opened with a quiet click. Molly quickly scanned the kitchen, looking for something to use as a weapon. There was a soft thump and a masculine curse from the other room, which told her the intruder had tripped over something. Probably her bag, it hadn't quite made it to the chair when she'd thrown it.

There really wasn't time to dig through the cutlery drawer where the knives were kept, so Molly grabbed the closest weapon-like thing she could get her hands on. 

When Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway, she had a pot of near boiling water and pasta ready to throw at his face. Luckily, she was able to abort the toss with only a small amount of spillage on the floor.

Sherlock's gaze quickly took in an extremely pale Janine at the table, a fierce Molly barely holding on to a large pot, and several wasted pasta noodles languishing in a puddle on the linoleum. "No thanks, ladies. I'll eat tomorrow."

Molly dumped the pot back on the stove, ignoring the angry hiss as the wet bottom connected with a still hot cook top. "Knock! Why don't you ever bother to knock before you barge in here?" She could tell her hands were shaking, and was aware enough of her emotional state to identify it as an aftereffect of the adrenaline rush. For a moment she had thought that Janine's stalker ex had broken into the flat and was coming for them both. Molly trembled and glared at Sherlock. "Did you even use the key I gave you? You didn't. You picked the lock again! One of these days you're going to get worse than a pot of pasta in the face, Sherlock. I have a bat!"

"Tucked out of reach on top of your wardrobe, which will do nothing for you if someone were to actually break in." He didn't appear the least bit threatened by her warning.

Sherlock stepped further into the small room and pointed at Janine's phone. "Is this it?"

She nodded.

Molly's glare turned into a confused frown as he quickly grabbed the phone and unlocked it. Without even looking up he explained, "Simple deduction. Janine has an older brother, and she is his son's godmother. She dotes upon the child as if he were her own, calls him Doodlebug. She purchased a birthday gift for him two months ago. Women often use sentimental dates for passwords."

"I hate it when he does that," Janine whispered to herself, although Molly heard her.

Molly didn't bother keeping her voice low as she replied, "We all do." 

He ignored them both, which was probably for the best. Instead, he quickly examined the pictures and the accompanying text; then looked at the wall above Janine's head as he thought. "How did I miss it? I should have considered the possibility. Expected it."

He began to pace, phone forgotten in his hand. Molly crowded closer to Janine to give him room to move. 

"I suspected he'd have Baker Street under surveillance when he couldn't find Janine at either of her homes. It's what I would have done. That's why I moved her here. I assumed the influx of clients at Baker Street would camouflage Molly's importance if she came over, she should have been just another face in the crowd. I was so focused on the Reynard case, the hand wound, I failed to take into account the memorable impression she made at the Barrett party."

_Of course he did_ , she thought. Why would he expect anyone else to remember her, when he had gone so far as to confuse her for John more than once. Molly knew she tended to blend into the background sometimes, like a quiet little mouse she was occasionally compared to. But only when she felt out of her depth and wanted to disappear. She'd been working on that, pushing herself out of her comfort zone since she'd helped Sherlock fake his death.

"How could I be so stupid? So fucking preoccupied I didn't think it through!" Sherlock's violent outburst startled her and Janine. They both jumped slightly, and Molly gasped.

"But why follow her? What possible purpose? Not just to thumb Janine's nose in it, too simple. He couldn't suspect she's staying here. He's used to women competing against each other for his affections, he'd never consider that you could work together, not if he believes you're both involved with me. So why would his lapdog follow Molly? Chapman must have described her, told the lackey to be on the lookout for her, because . . . why?"

Sherlock froze, his eyes wide and clear and suddenly focused on Molly. "Leverage."

She wasn't sure what he meant, but she was positive she wasn't going to like it.

Without looking away from Molly, he addressed Janine. "Is your boss still in Japan?"

"Barring an emergency at the offices here, he should be gone for at least another two weeks," she quickly replied.

"I know you've been telecommuting since he left, but perhaps now might be a good time to convince him that he'll get more work accomplished if his junior PA was in Japan with him, rather than holding down the fort back here." The words may have sounded like a suggestion, but his tone made it clear it was meant as an order. "Chapman is not aware of where you're currently staying; otherwise, he would have already been at the door demanding to see you. But it's only a matter of time before he figures it out."

Janine looked back and forth between Molly and Sherlock. After a second, she snatched her phone out of his hand. "I'll contact his senior PA right now. I'm sure if I explain the situation to her, she'll be able to convince Mr Nakahara to send for me without needing to share any of the personal details with him."

She headed into the sitting room, already pulling up her contact list on the phone.

Molly waited until Janine was out of earshot to turn back to Sherlock. "What do you mean by leverage?"

"I have something he wants. Janine. Or, at least, her whereabouts. Therefore, he'll take something I want in exchange. You."

She snorted in disbelief, and plopped down into the chair Janine had vacated. "You can't be serious."

"Very." He stood there, studying her for a moment, then arranged his coat so he could take the other chair for himself. His long legs stretched out and nearly touched the refrigerator. "I've managed to track down four of his former paramours. Two had their solicitors on the phone immediately. I gather there are non-disclosure contracts in play. The third has left the country; however, I have spoken with several of her friends, and they have painted a picture of a very confident woman who has been torn down and made timid by an affair with an unnamed man who essentially broke her."

She shuddered. "Did he beat her?"

"I get the impression there may have been some physical damage, yes; but it appears to have been primarily emotional and psychological abuse."

"What the hell is wrong with this guy?" Molly was horrified at the thought of what might have happened to Janine if she hadn't followed her instincts and run.

"All four women were described as dominate personalities--intelligent, sure of themselves, successful in their chosen professional fields, attractive--prior to their relationships with Chapman. Only the first of the four I found remained so after the relationship had been terminated."

"What was different about her?"

"It took some effort and a face-to-face meeting to get her to agree to speak with me, and she only agreed as long as we did not discuss the specifics of her time with Chapman. Within a few minutes, it was readily apparent to me that the reason she hadn't experienced a similar personality change to the others was that she was already a willing submissive in her romantic relationships. A force to be reckoned with in the business world, with a preference for being instructed and corrected in private."

Sherlock cleared his throat and studied a photo stuck to Molly's fridge. It was a picture of her curled up on her bed, wearing nothing but a giant sweatshirt from her uni days, her hair loose and terribly mussed, pressed nose to nose with an indulgent Toby. Tom had taken it, weeks before they'd split up. She kept it on display as a reminder to take pleasure in the simplest of things.

"She'd actually been a client of The Woman at one point." He continued to contemplate the photo, a slight frown marring his features.

"The woman?" Molly hadn't a clue who he was talking about; however, judging from the look he gave her, she should have.

"Irene Adler." Sherlock furrowed his brow when she continued to look confused; then he paled and his gaze darted about the kitchen for a moment. "Right. You wouldn't have had cause to know about the services she offered. Would you?" 

She caught him looking at her from the corner of his eye, then quickly glancing away again when he realized he'd been spotted. "No. Right. Moving on."

Sherlock cleared his throat, and sat up straighter. "Ms Adler is, was, a professional dominatrix. A dominatrix is-"

"Oh, I know what they are," Molly quickly interrupted.

"You do?" He looked stunned. And more than a little intrigued. 

"Ummhmm. Meena knows someone who offers beginner's lessons for people who are interested in experimenting but haven't a clue where to start, mostly ladies and married couples. The importance of consent, safe words, proper aftercare, and whatnot."

"Interesting." His voice came out as little more than a rumbling whisper. Sherlock sat, unmoving, for an uncomfortably long moment, then began to rapidly blink.

_There it is again. Buffering. Everything else temporarily shutting down while the wheels spin._ Apparently her revelation that she knew what a dominatrix was had thrown him off track. _Interesting_ , she couldn't help but echo. 

Seconds later, he was back to discussing Chapman's former girlfriends as if he hadn't been distracted at all. "This first girlfriend may have been the catalyst that sparked his interest in dominating women. He wants the world to see him as confident. Strong. An alpha male. But he's obviously riddled with insecurities. My first thought would be at least partial impotence, and a domineering maternal figure that made him feel emasculated. His relationship with the submissive gave him a taste of power; a buzz from being in control, if you will. Now he craves it, needs to be dominate. He has to break his women down to build himself up."

Molly shook her head. "But that's not how those sort of relationships work. I mean, Janine doesn't seem to be the type to want to be . . . well, that type."

"She isn't." He spoke with utter conviction on the matter. "As far as I'm aware, she's never expressed an interest in experimenting with submission. If anything, she's overly aggressive and bossy in bedroom matters."

She didn't need to hear that. She really didn't. Molly almost told him so, then realized there was a slim chance he might ask why. And that was a can of worms she had no intention of opening.

"But Chapman doesn't want a willing submissive. He's not looking for a healthy dom/sub relationship. He wants to bend them to his will. He wants to destroy these women, specifically because he finds them threatening. I doubt any of them had an inkling of what they were getting into when they started seeing him. Janine said he was quite charming in the beginning. The first woman might have, but she was more familiar with the rules of the game, and I suspect she realized something was off with him before he was able to do too much damage."

"You're saying he gets his kicks off of dehumanizing women, then moves on. Why is he fixated on Janine now? Because she dumped him first?" Molly was still trying to wrap her head around Chapman's motives.

"Exactly."

She took a deep breath, and leaned toward Sherlock. "Okay. Tell me what we do to help her."

"Putting her somewhere that Chapman won't find her is a start. That's why I moved her."

"You do realize she's not a poodle you can just put up in a kennel when you don't want her underfoot, don't you? She's a real person. It might not hurt to start asking her if she wants to be shuffled off from place to place, rather than telling her what she'll be doing."

"She came to me for help. Why wouldn't she want to do what I told her? If she didn't want my opinion, she should have found someone else to bother."

"To bother? Really, Sherlock."

"Not good?" He looked so uncertain for a moment that she almost felt sorry for him. 

How difficult it must be, to be so out of tune with the rest of the world. 

"No."

Sherlock nodded once. "Noted. If it makes any difference-"

"It probably won't." Molly shivered under the force of the chilly glare he sent her way. She tried to look properly contrite, and waved her hand for him to continue. "Sorry. Go ahead."

"As I was saying, if it makes any difference, she and I discussed the best options for her, prior to my asking you to take her in. I didn't just arbitrarily decide to move her here. Going to Japan was the backup choice, so it's not as if I just sprung that upon her, either."

"Sorry, again. I shouldn't have assumed."

"Regardless, Chapman has involved you now, and that changes things considerably. Japan will keep Janine out of his hands for the moment, but we'll still have to deal with his new interest in you."

"We could use me to try to lure him into a meeting, so you can warn him off. He's followed me once. It's not as if I can tell him where she'll be. All I know is she's going to Japan, which isn't very specific at all."

He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. Even more than that, he looked almost . . . angry? Molly instinctively scooted as far away as the back of her chair would allow.

"I don't care what you can or cannot tell him, I don't even want him within speaking distance of you." Sherlock leaned toward her, eating up the small amount of space she'd managed to gain a moment before. "I told you he's never touching you again, and I don't mean to offer him an opportunity to do so on a platter."

She felt a flush of warmth start low in the pit of her stomach, brought on either by his proximity or the intense way he was looking at her. She forced herself to ignore it. "All right then, what's your plan?"

He sighed, and relaxed back into the chair. Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, mussing it even more than usual. "I'm not sure yet. I can't have him arrested. Technically, he hasn't done anything illegal. Yet. None of the prior girlfriends I've managed to track down will be willing to file a complaint."

"Legalities have never really bothered you before," Molly quietly reminded him.

"No, they haven't, have they?" Sherlock smirked. She felt her own lips tilt upward in response.

"Let's think about it," she said as tapped her fingers against the tabletop. "If he's this hinky with his personal life, I wonder what other skeletons might be hiding in his closet? How do we know he hasn't been embezzling from his company or, I don't know, bugging Mrs Barrett's office?"

"I sincerely doubt he's intelligent enough to manage the latter, but the former is a possibility. I'll find out, shall I?" He lazily tilted his head to one side and studied her. 

Molly squirmed under the scrutiny. 

"What to do with you in the meantime?" Sherlock asked. She got the impression he wasn't actually speaking to her so much as thinking aloud.

"Nothing. You aren't doing anything with me." She blushed but stubbornly refused to look away, proud at herself for holding her ground. "I've got a job and a cat to look after. You aren't hiding me away like you did with Janine."

"Molly." The way he said her name--low and rumbly, with just a hint of an impatient growl--made her want to melt into a puddle at his feet. Damn him.

She stiffened her spine, and shook her head. "Don't 'Molly' me. I'm not leaving my flat just because you think there's a slight chance that annoying bully might try to follow me home like a stray dog."

He nodded as if he had expected her to say that. "You won't leave, therefore, I'll stay. Sofa then?"

It took her a moment to process what he was saying. "What? No!"

"Surely you aren't suggesting I spend another night in that horrible chair?"

Molly grumbled his name in warning.

"You're right. Both the chair and the sofa really are too small. Sharing your room it is, then. That way I'll be right there if someone breaks in during the night. Excellent suggestion, Molly."

She stood, hurt that he was once again mocking her feelings. "I told you not to joke about things like that." She wanted to storm past him, but his legs were still stretched across the floor and she had to step over them to leave the room. 

As she was trying to do just that, he reached out and grabbed her arm. Sherlock relaxed his hold as soon as she stopped moving, although he didn't let go.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, until Molly felt his thumb start to brush small circles against her. They were gentle movements that she barely felt through her blouse and cardigan, meant to sooth her agitation. She took a deep breath, and turned her head to look down at him.

"I apologize. I know better. But I am worried. You need to take this seriously, Molly. Chapman has been escalating over the years; even without all the nasty, explicit details, I can deduce that his abuse is getting worse. The texts and emails he's been sending Janine have grown steadily more threatening." His thumb stilled, and then he drew his hand down her arm until he could grasp her fingers. "I won't let him turn his frustration and aggression on you. So you either agree to temporarily move to a safe house and continue to let Mycroft's men drive you wherever you absolutely need to go, or you get used to me hanging around here until I figure out how to bring this guy down. The choice is yours."

She wasn't about to move to a safe house, and she suspected that he knew it. She frantically tried to think of a solution that wouldn't end up with her being swallowed up whole by the constant presence of Sherlock in her home. It was bad enough that he'd taken up permanent residence in her thoughts; having him under foot, his scent on her things, just being there within touching distance all the time . . . Molly feared it would be more temptation then she would be able to resist and she'd end up making a fool of herself.

She carefully pulled her hand free from his, and was grateful that he didn't try to stop her.

"You can't play babysitter, Sherlock. You've got cases to solve."

He frowned, his forehead creasing in that way that never failed to make her want to reach out and soothe him. He looked annoyed, and she knew she was on the right track.

She needed another gentle push, and her earlier quip about Chapman reminded her of something. "You haven't found out who has been bugging Mrs Barrett's office yet, have you?" His scowl confirmed her guess. "And I'm sure there are plenty of other people desperate for your expertise. What will you do if someone brings you a nine; ignore it so you can sit around on my sofa, bored out of your mind?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and she realized he was already trying to think of a solution that would insure he got what he wanted. Molly reached out to pat his shoulder as she finally stepped over his legs. "I'm not moving out, and you're not moving in."

"So much for doing anything I asked," he grumbled. "Remember when you told me that?"

"Truly important, Sherlock. I said I'd do anything truly important." Molly went to help Janine gather up her things.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Despite her protests, Sherlock had spent the night on her sofa. Molly had studiously ignored him from the moment Janine had left (Picked up by another of Mycroft's minions, it would seem. Sherlock really must have had something good on his brother.), and refused to even offer him sheets and a pillow. Of course, that didn't stop him from getting them out of the linen cupboard himself. He'd still been there around five, when she woke up to the sound of his mobile ringing. She didn't catch most of the conversation, but she did hear him tell the person on the other end that he'd be there within the hour. 

She'd been right; there was no way he would have been able to turn down a good case just to keep an eye on her.

The question was, would he be there tonight, too?

The dark Mercedes that picked her up after her shift pulled up to the kerb in front of her building. The driver was Mr Surly, again; which was sort of comforting, as it was nice to see a familiar face waiting for her after a long day of worrying about Chapman lurking in the shadows and Sherlock sleeping in her bed.

Before she even had a chance to remind him of her schedule for the next day, he turned toward the backseat and told her that he'd be picking her up in the morning. Molly couldn't keep the smile off her lips as she wished him a good evening. She almost made it out the door before she thought to ask for his name.

He looked at her for a moment, as if trying to figure out if she was serious.

"What if I need to ask for you, specifically? I haven't a clue what to call you."

He sighed, and looked as if he were already regretting making the concession to speak to her in the first place. "Anthea said if it should come up, I was to tell you to call me Soter."

"Soter? What does that even mean?"

He gave her a blank stare in response.

"Right. No problem. That's what the internet is for, isn't it? Again, have a good evening, Soter."

Soter gave her a sharp nod, then turned back to the wheel. "The same to you, Miss Hooper."

The Mercedes stayed at the kerb until Molly had the door to her building unlocked. As she pulled the door open and stepped into the foyer, the car merged into traffic and drove away. Molly bit her lip and hesitated in the foyer. Her curiosity got the best of her, and she pulled her phone out of her bag to look up the meaning of Soter.

It was probably Greek, since Anthea was involved, which helped narrow down her search.

She'd just had her hunch confirmed ( _Spirit of safety and deliverance from harm. Ha, very funny, Anthea._ ) when she noticed a lanky, unkempt man waiting in the open doorway of her building. His hand held the door open, and he appeared to be waiting for her to finish with her phone. As soon as she made eye contact he spoke, "'ello."

Molly screamed.

The man raised his free hand in a shushing motion. "Aw, don't scream, miss. We don't want the neighbours calling the cops. It's Bill Wiggins."

He said the name as if she should know it. More importantly, he made no move to come any closer, which reassured her just a bit. Molly stopped screaming, but she braced herself to charge the door and slam it into him if need be.

"And you don't remember me. Figures. How 'bout Billy? Does that ring any bells? We were never formally introduced, I suppose. I'm a, well, I guess you could call me a friend of Sherlock's. His protégé, if you will." He looked rather proud of himself.

He was vaguely familiar, although Molly had no idea where she'd seen him before. Just because he said he knew Sherlock didn't mean anything. Lots of people knew that she worked with Sherlock from time to time, especially the sort of people that might want to lull her into a false sense of security.

Billy sniffed and pulled a worn handkerchief out of his pocket to scrub at his nose. 

He must have realized she was still suspicious because he rushed to say, "Just a cold. I'm clean, I swear it. I can show you, if you want?" He started to pull back the sleeve of his jumper.

"Stop. Please. Why-Why would you say that?" If he said he was clean and he was planning to show her his arm to prove it, that would imply former intravenous drug use. But why would he feel the need to tell her that?

"Don't want to get slapped, miss."

Just like that, she recognized his face. He'd come in with John, Sherlock and the rest, the day she'd found out that Sherlock had been using drugs again. "Billy."

"Ah, so you do remember me. Good. Makes things easier, don't it? Mind if we step outside, miss?"

Perhaps she was an idiot for trusting someone she didn't know, but Molly followed him anyway. She checked to make sure there wasn't a nondescript van idling out front, or something equally ominous, before she stepped onto the stoop. "Why are we out here?"

"Sherlock's been called away on business for a bit. Not sure when he'll be back. I didn't want you to worry with him being gone. Thought it might be nice to let you know he's got you taken care of."

"He does?" What was that supposed to mean?

"Got your building under round the clock surveillance. Been on the job since this morning." Billy puffed out his thin chest and held his head high.

"Really." Molly wasn't sure if she were more amused or annoyed. Annoyance was probably going to come out ahead since Sherlock was involved.

"Yep." He popped the 'p' in the same affectation the annoying detective sometimes favoured. 

"So you're just going to stand out here all night?"

"Until someone takes my place, yeah." He sniffled again.

"Don't you think someone will notice you? Call the police?"

"Nah." Billy jerked his head in the direction Soter had driven off in. "Them, people notice. They try so hard to be nondescript, they stand out, yeah? Us Street People though, other people don't want to see. They've trained themselves to look past the bum on the corner." This time he jerked his head in the opposite direction. Molly finally noticed a woman wrapped in a torn and dirty jumper, leaning against a brick building up the block. When she noticed Billy and Molly paying attention to her, she gave them a brief nod, then went back to digging through a battered grocer's bag.

"No one notices us. We're inconsequential." Billy carefully and precisely enunciated each and every syllable of the last word.

She'd done exactly what he suggested, ignored the less fortunate on the street in her hurry to get some place. Not just ignored, totally overlooked. Molly couldn't help but feel uneasy, how many other things had she missed because she didn't want to see. How many other people had been watching her without her noticing? "Are there a lot of you?"

"Here? Right now? Just a couple. A few more will show up once it gets dark. Sherlock's got a guy setting something up in the alley behind your building, where they can go to warm up if it gets too wet and cold. Good view of your fire escape, too."

Bill tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and looked up at the sky. "You better get inside, miss. It's gonna rain soon."

Molly looked up as well. He was right, there were storm clouds gathering. "Come in with me, Billy."

"I can't. Sherlock told me to keep watch."

"You can keep an eye on me just as easily upstairs, and out of the rain, as you can down here."

He took less than a second to mull it over. "Can't argue with that, miss."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

There had been someone sleeping on her sofa every night for the last week. She'd barely managed any sleep that first night, worrying about having a relative stranger in her flat (she really should have considered that before she invited him up). The next night had been the woman from up the block. Her name was Georgie, and she had been a school teacher once upon a time. Then came Billy again. Another woman named Maureen, who had stayed two nights in a row. And last night she'd pulled a night shift at Barts, only to come home to find Billy begging for change from the people just starting their day. He'd given her a wink as she walked past, then asked if she could spare a few coins for a guy down on his luck.

She was starting to miss having Janine around, which was something Molly never thought she'd admit to. She had been a single, constant presence. Billy, Georgie and Maureen were all different, with different habits and quirks. Georgie liked to talk for a bit, Maureen barely spoke at all. It was difficult for Molly to get used to.

It wasn't as if they were any real trouble, though. 

They would appear just after Mycroft's car had driven off, materializing near her side as if from thin air. She suspected the overhanging stoop in front of the building next door had a lot to do with that. 

They were surprisingly clean for street people (and Molly felt extremely guilty for even having that thought); their clothing was worn and faded but not dirty. She wondered how much of that was typical, and how much came from the benefit of being part of Sherlock's network of people.

Molly had begun trying to pay more attention when she was out. She was starting to recognize some faces that she would have surely overlooked before.

The homeless man who had a makeshift shelter set up in the alley next to the Indian place was a constant. She saw him every time she left her building. He'd even begun to give her a short, friendly wave once he realized she had spotted him.

There was a mother and her toddler child, who sported perpetually dirty knees and a near constant grin. They often spent part of the afternoon playing in the park near Barts. Molly sometimes liked to eat her lunch on a bench out there, and they almost always showed up within minutes of her.

She'd spotted Georgie once or twice, talking to another member of Sherlock's seemingly endless homeless network.

There hadn't been a word from Sherlock, other than Billy's brief updates that Sherlock had been checking in on and off; to make sure his people were still doing what he'd asked of them. He never had a message to pass on to her.

As she got ready for bed, after making sure Billy was settled in for yet another long night on her sofa, Molly tried to tell herself that Sherlock's absence and silence was no different than any of the other multitude of times he'd disappeared. She missed him, obviously, but surely not anymore than usual?

Right?

She hadn't made the mistake of attaching any real significance to any of the things he'd said and done over the last few weeks. Had she?

Deep in her heart, she knew she had. 

She threw herself onto her bed and pulled a pillow over her head, shutting out the insidious glow from the streetlights that found its way through the curtains. 

Tomorrow would be a new day, and a new start. Tomorrow she would tell Billy to call off the guards, and she would go back to her normal life.

That resolve lasted for all of a minute and a half before she rolled over and sighed. 

Tomorrow she would offer Billy breakfast, which he would refuse as usual, and then she'd get in the car Mycroft continued to send out for her. She'd go to work, do her job, periodically wonder where Sherlock was now, and try to figure out at what point--exactly--she had lost control of her life.

They would talk when he got back. She'd stand firm. He'd make those endearing 'I just want what's best for you' type noises. She'd fold like a house of cards simply because he'd say something that made her believe he really did care. 

_And the process would repeat again and again_ , she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, Molly snapped awake. She tried to keep still, ears straining to catch any hint as to what had disturbed her sleep. There was a quiet sound near the bedroom door, then a muted thud as something hit the carpet. Another thud, and then the bed dipped. 

Even before she could draw enough air into her lungs to call for help, she opened her eyes and saw him. Molly softly gasped his name.

Sherlock stretched out on top of the covers. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, stubble darkened his jaw. She could just make out the paleness of his bare feet in the barely lit room. His hands were folded together on his stomach, and there was a pillow's width of space between them.

"Billy's on the sofa," he offered, as if it were an explanation for why he was in her room. In her bed.

Her mind come up with and rejected so many things to say. Was he all right? When did he get back? Why was he here and not Baker Street? Why was he _here_ , in her bed, specifically?

He must have known some of what she was thinking; it seemed as if he'd always been able to read her, since the day they'd first met. "Go back to sleep, Molly. You can ask your questions in the morning."

For some strange reason, she did. The last thing she saw before sleep overtook her once more was Sherlock's face; that soft, boyish, barely there smile that he reserved for a chosen few was aimed at her. The tension she'd been carrying around in her chest for the last week started to loosen.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

She was curled against something solid and warm, nothing like the pillow she usually found herself wrapped around in the mornings. Rather than the usual fragrance of fabric softener and traces of her shampoo, Molly picked up hints of tobacco, leather, and a familiar musk. She took a deep breath and held it, instinctively recognizing the scent she would forever associate with Sherlock Holmes.

Molly rubbed her face against his chest like a cat, then froze as she realized just what she was doing and to whom. Her eyes snapped open as she took stock of her surroundings.

She was still under the bedding, and he was still on top; but she'd moved in the night, and managed to curl around him. She'd tucked her head under his chin, her cheek pillowed on his chest. Her arm was draped loosely across him. Surprisingly, he had one of his wrapped around her, holding her close against his side. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Molly was surprised that he was still asleep. She'd fully expected him to be gone when she woke, regardless of what he had said about answering her questions in the morning.

Yet again, she wondered why he had come to her place rather than sending a text from Baker Street. Was there something important he needed to tell her? Whatever it was couldn't be that urgent, he had told her to go back to sleep last night.

She realized she'd been idly playing with one of the buttons on his shirt while she thought; her fingers gently twisting and turning it, her thumb sliding against the smooth outer rim. 

"If you're not careful, it will come loose."

Molly jerked away, rolling to the edge of the bed and nearly falling off the side before she managed to catch herself. She finished scooting off and stood, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt at being caught groping him.

Rather than being upset, Sherlock appeared to be amused. He stretched, and tucked the arm that had been holding her under his head. He seemed to be in no hurry to get up.

"I-I didn't mean . . ." She trailed off, having no idea what to say. 

"It's fine, Molly." He watched her fidget for a moment, then gracefully sat up and got off the bed. "You work today, correct?"

All she could manage was a nod in response. Her tongue felt thick and unwieldy in her mouth, making it nearly impossible to speak.

"I'll go speak with Billy while you get ready, shall I?"

"Yeah, that would-Yeah." She kept her eyes down, purposely not looking at him as he came around the bed toward her. He stopped to put on his suit jacket, which had been laying across the small table that held her laptop and jewellery box. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pick up his shoes, then silently slip out of her bedroom in search of Billy.

Twenty minutes later, she had dressed and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. After a moment's hesitation, she went ahead and added her favourite jumper. Sometimes her cardigans and jumpers served as comfortable knitted armour, an extra shield against the harshness of the world, in addition to another layer of warmth in the coldness of the morgue.

The sitting room was empty. Someone had thoughtfully folded the sheets Billy had been using, and left them on the sofa. When she looked into the kitchen, only Sherlock was sitting at the table.

"He's gone home."

"Pardon?"

She didn't make eye contact; focusing, instead, on what she could put together for breakfast. There was no way she would be able to concentrate enough to cook anything, not this morning. Perhaps a bowl of cereal?

"Billy. You were wondering where he is." Sherlock shifted, and tucked his legs under the chair and out of her way. 

"And now you're wondering what sort of home he has to go to. It's a small place, only a single room, really. Space for a bed and a hot plate, communal bathroom down the hall. Step up from the drug house where John sprained his arm, so . . ." He caught sight of her expression and trailed off, as if he'd just remembered how his past drug use was a very touchy subject with Molly. "Anyway, now that Billy's whereabouts have been settled, coffee?"

She'd actually opened the cupboard and reached for the box of coffee filters before she realized what she was doing. Molly dropped her hands to the counter and hung her head for a moment while she regrouped. After a deep, calming breath, she turned and finally looked directly at Sherlock. "I'll stop and get some on the way to work."

He tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy. For a moment, she wanted to give in. She knew he probably thought she was being irrational (and she may very well have been), but there was only so much a girl could take before she'd had breakfast and a proper dose of caffeine.

"I'm not Mrs Hudson," she explained, as if talking to a child. "I'm not making you coffee."

"I didn't ask you to," Sherlock countered, mimicking her cadence and tone. He pointed to the to-go cup sitting on the table in front of him. Then he shifted his finger toward the identical one waiting on the placemat in front of the other chair.

"Oh." Somehow, Molly felt even more wrong footed and embarrassed, which she hadn't thought possible. Her grudging thank you made her sound ungrateful, and which only served to make her feel guilty in addition to everything else. 

He smirked, as if he knew what she was thinking. Which he probably did. Arse. 

"Billy fetched them before he left."

"Then I'll have to thank him next time I see him. Assuming?"

Sherlock nodded, some of the smugness disappearing from his expression. "No progress on the Chapman front, I'm afraid."

"And Mrs Barrett?"

He grumbled, "A bit. I've got a few theories." Molly got the impression that he was a little disgruntled at how long it was taking him to solve the case. "John went with me to inspect her office. Mr Smythe was very helpful as far as getting me access." He gestured to a brown paper bag on the counter behind her. "Bagel."

As she turned to look, he clarified, "For you."

She pulled a cinnamon raisin bagel out of the bag, and groaned in appreciation. "My favourite," she hummed in approval after the first bite; then reached for her coffee. It was exactly the way she liked it. She should have been surprised that he'd remembered, but she wasn't. Not anymore. 

One thing she'd learned since this madness started was that Sherlock had been paying a good deal more attention to her than she had been lead to believe.

"I'll definitely need to tell Billy thanks."

"The bagel was my idea." 

He sounded so much like a little boy seeking praise that Molly had to hide her smile behind her coffee. "Then I'll thank you, for the bagel."

Sherlock looked away as if he were uncomfortable.

Neither one of them spoke for several minutes while she continued to eat her breakfast and he sipped his coffee.

It wasn't a comfortable silence. Not like when they would work in the lab sometimes; he on his experiments, and she running tests for the hospital or assisting him if she wasn't busy. True, she'd try to make small talk from time to time, and he'd often shut her down; but once they'd settle in, they were a well oiled machine. No need for unnecessary words, they anticipated each other's needs, harmoniously sharing the same space without bumping in to each other. 

This was nothing like that. 

They were both on edge, waiting for the other to speak first.

There were plenty of times when she had felt extremely awkward around Sherlock over the years, and while this wasn't the worst of them, this morning was right up there. It wasn't as bad as the infamous Christmas fiasco that would have made her curl up at home and refuse to leave for days if she hadn't been called in to the morgue for Sherlock to identify that woman's body. It wasn't even close to the day he told her that her new boyfriend, who was starting to make her feel like a giddy schoolgirl in her first throes of love, was gay. Although, in the long run, he'd done her a bit of a favour with that one, as Jim turned out to be a homicidal criminal mastermind and all that, but still . . . He could have handled that one a little better, perhaps put a bit of effort into being slightly tactful. 

Finally, Molly couldn't take it anymore. "Look, Sherlock. I've been very patient-"

"No, you haven't."

She scowled at the interruption. "I have, too. I have been very patient with you, and with this."

Now it was his turn to scowl. "This? What this?"

Molly waved her hand at him, then at the flat and the world as a whole. "This. Billy. The others. The cars driving me around as if I'm some visiting dignitary. You threatening to camp out in my bedroom, in case the Bogeyman decides to break in through the window or some other nonsense. It's ridiculous." She shoved her half eaten bagel back into the bag and dropped it on the counter. "You're overreacting, and it has to stop."

"I beg to differ."

"Of course you do." She sighed, utterly uncertain as to what she could do to make him understand, and took another sip of her coffee. It took her a moment to notice the way he was slouching, and the sulky expression on his face. Somewhat incredulous, she blurted out, "Are you pouting?"

"I don't pout." Sherlock crossed his arms and managed to look even more petulant.

"Oh my God, you are!"

He glared, his foot tapping against the floor in agitation. "I don't see why you keep harping on about my being in your room. I've spent plenty of time in there, and you've never complained before."

"That's what you chose to focus on out of everything I've just said?" Molly shook her head, exasperated with him. "I believe I have complained many, many times. And when you've stayed before, we weren't sharing. This is completely different."

His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, going in for the kill. Even before he opened his mouth, she knew whatever he was about to say was going to be bad. Sherlock disliked being argued with, and he had an almost supernatural ability to find just the wrong thing to say.

"It's not as if you've got any other prospects beating down the door to get into your bed, is it?"

And there it was.

She expected to feel stabbed in the heart by the cruel dagger of his words; to crumble up and stammer and run away to keep him from realizing how much his taunt had hurt her. She'd done it plenty of times in the past.

Instead, she blinked and shook her head. Rather than cry or get angry, she softly said, "You've got the emotional maturity of a child."

He jerked his head back as if she'd slapped him. "Do not."

"No, you do." How had she not seen it earlier? "You are an overgrown child, Sherlock Holmes. You constantly crave outside stimulation; and when you can't get it, you turn to destructive outlets for amusement, just to see what will happen." She took a step closer to him, her words becoming more sure and confident as the comparison solidified in her mind.

"You get jealous if people don't praise you and offer reassurance that you're the smartest boy in the room. The minute someone starts to pay attention to another person, or you don't get your way, you turn nasty and pout and say horrible, horrible things." 

She took another step closer, and suddenly she was looming over him. "I imagine if you ever really liked a girl, you'd . . . you would pull their pigtails and run off." The last was spoken as if Molly had just experienced a great epiphany.

For a second, she thought he was going to panic. Then he sneered and popped out of the chair; nearly causing her to tumble backward as he pushed past her into the sitting room. 

Molly slowly moved into the kitchen doorway, not wanting to spook him by following too fast. He stopped in the middle of the room. She could just see enough of his face to know that his eyes were closed, and his lips were silently moving. 

Eventually he smirked, and turned to face her fully; replying to her as if the conversation hadn't come to a complete standstill for over a minute while he thought. "I like Janine, and I never pulled her proverbial pigtails."

"Oh, Sherlock." Molly's indulgent smile did little to mask the hint of sadness in her voice. "You like her, but did you ever _like_ like her?"

He frowned, apparently not grasping the distinction. "What do you mean?"

"Do you love her?" 

It was a simple enough question, yet he continued to look confused. She sighed and tried again. "Are you _in_ love with her?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. Sherlock began to pace around the small sitting room. 

Molly settled against the kitchen doorframe and watched him.

"I don't feel love. Sentiment is a weakness. Caring is-"

"Not an advantage. I've heard." She'd overheard Mycroft say it once. Both brothers seemed to actually believe it, which was tragically sad in her opinion. 

He snapped his head around to briefly glare at her, searching her face for any sign that she was mocking him. Apparently satisfied that she wasn't, he returned to his pacing.

While her love for him was unrequited, at least she had been blessed enough to know what it felt like to love someone with her entire being, faults and all. Although it hadn't been quite the same, she'd fallen in love a second time, with Tom. She knew the feeling of love; knew the ups and downs, and the bittersweet joy. Did he?

"Sherlock, how do you know? I mean, are you sure you'd even be able to recognize it, if you did feel it?"

He froze in place, his back to her, head bowed. She wanted so very much to approach him, but Molly instinctively knew that he needed space to work through his thoughts on his own. If she came too close, pushed too hard, he'd run. She had no doubts about that.

She sipped her coffee and watched him roll his neck. She could hear the cartilage crack and pop from across the room. He moved closer to her window and pulled the curtain to one side so that he could look out at the busy street below. 

"I don't know," he finally replied.

Molly took a deep breath and pushed away from the doorframe. She took a hesitant step forward, and then stopped when she saw his shoulders tense. "Tell me what you feel for your parents."

"Why?" He sounded weary and suspicious.

"Mental exercise. Humour me. Think of your parents, and tell me what you feel." 

"Indulgent affection. Which even I know isn't what love is supposed to feel like." 

"It can, for some people; but we're not talking about what love is _supposed_ to feel like right now. We're talking about what you feel." She dared to ease a little closer so that she could put her coffee on the table in front of the sofa. "What about Mycroft? Affection, again?"

His nod was sharp and brief, and Molly would have given anything to see his expression at that moment. "In a way. Mostly tinged with irritation. Respect. Grudging admiration. And if that ever gets out, I will know exactly who to blame." 

She smiled at the threat. "Noted. And John?"

Sherlock turned his head just enough that she could see his profile silhouetted against the morning light from the window. "Tolerance. Amusement, it's always so amusing when he tries to figure things out on his own. He pushes me out into the world, instead of letting me lose myself in here." His hand fluttered toward his head. "But I know he'll be by my side to pull me back if it becomes too much, if I can't stay grounded. I feel . . . safe, with him."

She'd thought as much. "And affection?"

"Yes. I . . . yes." Sherlock turned to face her a little more. He was frowning. She suspected that he was uncertain as to where all these questions were going. If it weren't about emotions and feelings, he would have figured it out already.

"Mrs Hudson? Affection, again?"

His lips actually tilt upward for a fraction of a second as he considered his landlady/not-his-housekeeper. "Yes."

"Mary?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, hesitantly.

"Baby Bethany?"

This time his nod is quick and sure. He turned to face her directly, and she could see from his expression that he was apprehensive about whatever name she was going to throw out next. Molly briefly wondered who it is that he was worried about, but she was ready to move on to the next line of questions.

"Are they in your thoughts more than you'd expect them to be; more, perhaps, than you'd prefer? Do you see them in your mind palace, even when you haven't necessarily sought them out?"

His frown returned, and he looked at her with a hint of suspicion. "How do you know that?"

She ignored his question and continued. "Do you think they care about you?"

He shifted his gaze to a collection of framed photos she had grouped on her wall as he gave his answer careful consideration. 

Even without looking, she knew the faces he'd see. Her parents, young and vibrant and so in love it hurt to look at them. Graduation with just her and her mum. A candid snap from John and Mary's wedding; the happy couple and Sherlock, all three smiling. One of her and Meena, slightly tipsy and laughing like loons. There used to be another, just her and Tom celebrating at their engagement party; the nail was still in the wall, waiting for another picture to be hung.

"Yes," Sherlock's voice was clear and confident. 

She was surprised at how candid he was being. She had expected him to prevaricate much more than he was, or outright refuse to answer her questions. "Do you care about them?"

"Yes." He took an equally long time to answer, and he didn't sound quite as sure this time. Sherlock threw himself into the chair. "How much longer are we going to continue this absurd 'mental exercise'? Don't you have a job to go to?"

"Do you think they'd protect you if they could?"

His fingers began to twitch, tapping out a quiet rhythm on the arm of the chair. "Bethany is only a few months old. What could she possibly do to protect me?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Fine. Other than Bethany, do you think the people who care about you would protect you if they could?"

His fingers stilled when he answered, "Yes."

"And would you protect them?"

"Of course." No hesitation this time.

She'd had no doubts that he would. As she'd recently reminded John, Sherlock had thrown himself off the damn roof of Barts to keep his friends safe. She'd known it, but she had needed to make sure that he was aware of it, and what that meant in terms of his relationships with his friends and family.

"You'd sacrifice yourself if it were the only way to save one of them." 

It wasn't meant as a question, but he answered anyway. He squirmed in the chair, and she got the strangest feeling that he was trying to hide something from her. "Yes."

"All of that?" Molly shrugged and held out her hands at her sides. "That's love." 

She could see him begin to process all the new data she'd thrown at him. His gaze lost focus. She fully expected him to be gone for awhile. Molly settled onto the sofa near his chair, and watched her cat flop down in a ray of sunlight from the window. He was quiet long enough for her to begin to grow drowsy. Her eyes drifted shut, and she told herself she was just resting them for a moment before she had to leave for work.

"But what about . . . sex? Isn't that part of love?"

Molly kept her eyes closed, even though the question had been unexpected. Her lips pursed as she tried to puzzle through the hesitant nature of his query. The man had engaged in frequent and well publicized sex with his ex girlfriend, it wasn't as if he were a virgin. So what could he . . .

 _Oh._ Someone-- _John or Janine, perhaps?_ \--must have tried to shame him for sleeping with Janine when he didn't love her. As if John had room to talk. And Janine, well, if she'd thought Sherlock had real feelings for her when they'd started . . . doing that sort of thing; then Molly could definitely see where hurt feelings could have come into play.

Molly thought about how best to answer him. 

"Do you want to have sex with Mycroft?"

She could practically hear him shudder with revulsion. "God, no."

"Then sex isn't necessary for love." Molly cracked one eye open and looked at him. "You can love someone, without wanting to sleep with them. Just as you can want to sleep with someone, without loving them." 

She opened her other eye and sat up straight. "Sometimes, with the right person, you can do both." 

Molly's smile was sad, but heartfelt. She wished she could make things easier for him, but this was something he needed to figure out for himself.

"Just so you know, there is nothing wrong with any of those options. No matter what you've been led to believe." He was watching her, studying her face and body language, looking for something. Acceptance, perhaps? Did he think she wouldn't understand or accept him, just as he was? She'd loved him unconditionally for years; and that wasn't likely to change, no matter what happened in the future. "Or none of them, if that is what will truly make you happy."

Molly leaned forward and briefly touched his knee. "Don't let anyone, including me, try to push you into something you don't really want, Sherlock. Not when it's as important as loving someone."

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it. He looked so lost and unsure. 

She knew that if she stayed any longer there was every chance that she'd end up crying, or worse, trying to hug the poor man.

Molly stood up and moved to the door to grab her bag. She draped it across her body. "I've got to get to work. Have a good morning. Don't forget to lock up when you leave."

She nearly made it out the door when Sherlock finally found his voice. "Do you love me, Molly?"

What was she supposed to say to that? Her hand tightened on the door knob, clenching so hard it hurt.

"Sometimes, I think you do; but then you don't look at me the way you used to, and I'm not sure what I see in your eyes anymore. I wish . . . I can't be what you need, what you deserve. You know that, don't you?"

Her eyes closed. She rocked back on her heels for a moment, swaying as his words engulfed her, overwhelmed her. They pressed against her chest as if they were a tangible thing, smothering her. They both knew she loved him; but she'd never said the words, and he'd never openly acknowledged it in front of her before.

Turning around and looking at him, seeing the expression of pity that was surely on his face, was not an option. She continued to stare straight ahead. "I've never asked you to be anything but what you are. You don't get to shut off caring for someone just because they aren't everything you'd hoped they'd be. That would be far too easy. What I feel or don't, it's not important. It never has been."

She could hear him move, pulling himself up out of the chair. "Molly-"

Far too brightly to be genuine, Molly quickly offered, "I'll send a text if anything interesting comes through the morgue today."

Then she pulled the door shut behind her and hurried down the stairs, desperate to get out of the building before the threat of tears became a reality.

It wasn't until she was at work, mindlessly staring at the mountain of paperwork waiting on her desk, that she realized they'd never finished arguing about the continued need for her babysitters. The thought of going home that night and finding Sherlock waiting for her, possibly in her bed, made her shiver with apprehension (and, perhaps, something else that she refused to acknowledge).


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

A spot at the kerb in front of her building opened up, as if by magic, as soon as the Mercedes drew near. If she didn't know better, she would have thought the other car had been waiting for them to appear before pulling out into the street, but that was too farfetched (even for someone who liked to micromanage every detail such as Mycroft Holmes).

Molly didn't recognize her driver, and she was a little disappointed that it wasn't Soter. Soter still wasn't much of a talker, but he didn't seem to mind her rambling on about her day. He'd even offered a suggestion when she'd been wondering aloud as to the source of a particularly peculiar puncture wound the night before. 

Dandelion digger. Soter was an avid gardener when he wasn't driving misappropriated government vehicles and scaring the pants off of paranoid pathologists.

The new guy didn't seem the type to encourage chatting, even the strictly one-sided kind; which gave her plenty of time to quietly think on the drive home.

Her foot ached from a long day of standing in front of autopsy tables. Her head ached from a long day of paperwork. Her body ached from a long day of mounting tension caused by worrying about Sherlock's reaction to their last conversation.

She hadn't seen him since she'd walked out of her flat yesterday.

Molly had been so hesitant to return home that evening, unsure of what Sherlock would say. Had he thought about her words? Had he admitted to himself that he wasn't the heartless sociopath he often claimed to be? Why had he asked if she still loved him?

Sherlock had tried to warn her off, but his wording . . .

It was almost as if he wanted her to love him. Yearned to be the man she needed, but he was too scared to try.

There were times over the last day and a half that she absolutely hated him for reigniting that spark of hope in her, the one she'd worked so hard to extinguish. Why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut?

It had been both a relief and sheer torture to come home to Georgie waiting for her last night, no sign of Sherlock. He'd even disposed of her half-eaten bagel and nearly empty coffee cup before he left. The only thing out of place was the picture of her and Toby that had been stuck to her refrigerator. It was missing entirely. She'd seen Sherlock looking at it once or twice. He'd probably deduced that it had been taken by Tom, and tossed it into the bin because it had poor composition and offended his delicate sensibilities or something equally ridiculous. 

He'd done worse. 

He'd tried to incinerate the crocheted afghan her grandmother had made because the yarn was "hideous, scratchy, and made his retina's burn". She'd only just rescued it before he'd managed to light a match after he'd shoved the thing into her bathtub. Molly had scolded him as if he was a little boy, but he hadn't seemed fazed. He had got what he wanted, as she hid it from sight to keep his destructive hands off of it, so he probably thought he'd won in the end.

All she wanted tonight was a quiet evening in front of the telly, spicy take-away, a bottle of wine, and the half carton of ice cream she'd been saving for a rainy day. She didn't want to feel obligated to make small talk with someone she barely knew. She didn't want to make sure she had plenty of clean sheets and blankets on hand for whoever got stuck bedding down on her sofa. And she especially did not want to worry herself to sleep wondering if Sherlock was going to show up in the middle of the night, and slip back into her bed as if nothing had changed between them.

Waking up wrapped in his arms--even one more time--only to realize it meant nothing, would devastate her.

Why couldn't he understand how much that bothered her? 

He'd already taken her heart--she'd long given up trying to convince herself she hadn't handed it over years ago, and never managed to take every single piece back before she'd agreed to marry Tom--why couldn't he give her this one little thing? 

As long as she wasn't touching him, couldn't hear that voice saying her name, couldn't smell his unique, masculine scent . . . Then she could keep her dignity and self respect. She'd spent years waiting with the slimmest hope that Sherlock would someday realize he loved her. When he left, Molly had taken a good, long look at her life, and she did not like the needy woman she saw.

She'd changed over the last few years. She'd grown up, tried to move on. And then he came back and ruined everything by telling her she was the one that mattered the most to him. He'd very nearly broken her again.

It had taken time, ending her engagement with Tom, even the turmoil of the last few weeks, to rebuild her. And now Molly was nearly whole. 

She'd come to the realization that she could be Sherlock's friend, even with her unrequited feelings out in the open. He trusted her when he was in need, came to her when he was vulnerable, relied on her when he had nowhere else to turn. She was strong enough to be everything he needed, and nothing more; but only if he respected her boundaries. That was a concession she _had_ to have. 

The driver cleared his throat, and Molly realized she'd been sitting there with her hand on the door handle for ages. She apologized and let herself out of the car.

From the pavement she could see the sitting room window. Her curtains were drawn, just as she'd left them that morning. They were no hint as to whether or not Sherlock would be waiting in her flat when she opened the door.

Molly sighed and entered her building. The stairs loomed, ominous and uninviting. For a brief moment, she considered turning around and leaving. Perhaps phoning Meena to see if she'd like to meet up for dinner and a movie. 

Sadly, she didn't think she'd be decent company for even that much.

She trudged up the stairs and unlocked her door. She had just begun to push it open when the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

The odd stillness of the landing finally registered.

Molly felt her skin break out in goose bumps.

How had she not noticed that no one had joined her at the front door? No one had climbed up the flights of stairs with her. No one was standing next to her, politely making small talk while they waited to be let into the flat.

"Are you kidding me?" Molly muttered under her breath.

If she turned around and Sherlock Bloody Holmes was lurking behind her, if he was the one scaring her, she was going to push him down the stairs.

Her heart began to race as she fumbled with her key ring, pulling her flat key free from the door. By the time she actually heard the person behind her speak, she had the door key stabilized between her finger and thumb, ready to slash or jab, just as she'd learned in Meena's classes.

"Doctor Molly Hooper. It's so nice to finally have a name to go with such a pretty face."

She spared a glance over her shoulder to confirm the speaker was indeed the odious man from the Barrett party, and that they were the only two people on the landing.

_Pretty face, my arse_ , she thought. She hadn't forgotten the horrible things he'd written about her to Janine. Cheap harlot and cut-rate substitute weren't the worst of it.

"Mr Chapman," Molly replied through gritted teeth. Her gaze darted toward the stairs. Where was Billy or one of the others from Sherlock's network? Had Chapman done something to one of them?

"Oh, you know who I am? I'm sure Holmes has told you all about me." He puffed out his chest and gloated. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I know which I'd prefer, but I'm feeling generous today." 

Chapman took a menacing step closer. "You will call Sherlock Holmes and persuade him to drop by for a visit this evening. He hasn't been back to that quaint rat trap he calls home in days, but I've been informed that he's spent the night here rather recently. It shouldn't be too difficult for you to convince him to do it again."

Molly's mind scrambled to find a distraction, something to buy her some more time until she could find a way out of this mess. "I can't. He's on a case. It's a nine, so he won't make an effort to see me until it's solved. Won't even answer my calls or-or listen to my messages. It's one of the rules of our-our arrangement."

He looked bewildered for a moment; as if it never occurred to him that his ridiculously melodramatic plan might not go off without a hitch. Then his too handsome face twisted into a mockery of a friendly smile. "If he won't come to me, I suppose I'll have to go to him. Tell me where to find him, or I'll be forced to leave a nasty surprise for your meddling boyfriend to find when he eventually gets around to looking for you."

"And if I tell you, will you leave me alone?" She hated that she could hear how unsteady fear had made her voice. Chapman heard it too, judging from the way that horrible smile morphed into an even worse smirk.

"Perhaps. I may just stay and play a little bit, I'm not in any rush." He chuckled. Molly shuddered as the sound seemed to grate against her nerves. "In you go, so we can have our little talk in private."

His big hand wrapped around her bicep--Oddly, her mind registered that his palm was wider than Sherlock's, but his fingers were shorter and thicker, not as elegant. Would they be harder to break?--and he used his hold to try to steer her into her flat. Molly knew with one hundred percent certainty that she could not let him get her into her sitting room and behind a closed door. If he did, she'd be trapped; and she could not let that happen.

Molly braced her foot against the doorframe and pushed backward. She twisted at the waist and drove her elbow into his stomach, then lashed out with her key. He lurched forward with a bellow, his foot coming down hard on her barely healed toe, and Molly saw stars.

She screamed in pain and rage. Rage that this bully, this arsehole, this abusive fuckwit had dared to put his hands on her. On instinct Molly swung around and drove the heel of her hand up into his nose.

Chapman's head snapped back. He covered his face with both hands, but that didn't stop the blood from running past his fingers in little crimson rivers. The scratch from where she'd raked his cheek with her key, narrowly missing his left eye, was raw and red with welling blood. Even through the muffle of his hands she could hear the fury in his voice as he screamed, "You bitch!"

He reached out and wrapped his fist around her ponytail, yanking hard enough to bring more tears to her eyes.

The door across the hall was wrenched open with enough force to crash into the wall inside. Molly's neighbour Jacob came barrelling out, bellowing an unintelligible war cry, swinging a cricket bat over his head as if he were some sort of Viking warrior.

Chapman took one look at Molly's saviour and released her hair, before running down the stairs.

Jacob stood in front of her, waving the bat menacingly at the stairs until they both heard the sound of the main door to the building slam shut. As soon as he heard it, Jacob lowered the bat and clutched his free hand against his chest, over his heart. "Christ, I can't believe I did that." He held his hand out level with the ground. "I'm still shaking!"

Jacob turned and whatever else he'd been about to say was quickly forgotten as he realized Molly was swaying in place. Judging by the expression of horror on his face, she looked as shook up as she felt. She wanted to reassure him, but everything went a bit dark and she began to crumble to the ground instead.

Luckily, Jacob was there to slow her descent, and she ended up sitting on the ground with her back against the hallway wall.

"Molly, sweetie? Are you all right? Should I call an ambulance? The police?" He'd dropped the bat in his hurry to keep her from hitting the ground, but he dragged it closer with a suspicious look toward the stairs as soon as she was settled.

She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. Now that the initial shock had worn off a little, her head was no longer spinning. "No ambulance. I'm not that hurt. Just call the police. Please." 

Jacob nodded and started to stand, as Molly reached out to grab his hand. "Ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade. Greg Lestrade."

He nodded again. Molly gripped him tighter, squeezing his hand briefly. "Thank you, Jacob. That was very brave of you. Not everyone, well, not everyone would have done what you did."

"That's because some people are arseholes, my dear. Trust me, I was scared spitless, but I wasn't about to leave you out here to fend for yourself. Although, it looked like you were doing all right without me."  
"Regardless, thank you."

He nodded, and then asked, "You want to come in with me while I call your detective?"

"God, yes."

With Jacob's help, she managed to get back on her feet. He waited as she took a moment to pull her door closed, then he helped her limp into his flat. "You're just lucky Mikey forgot to put his gear away after the match the other night. Elsewise I would have been out here swinging a mop. Not nearly as intimidating."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

She had expected it to be louder.

Molly had never had reason to visit New Scotland Yard before. On the extremely rare occasions when Sherlock had requested her presence at a crime scene, someone had picked her up at Barts and then driven her straight back when she was no longer needed. But she'd long been a fan of police procedurals on the telly. There was usually always a cacophony of background noise in the scenes that took place around an officer's desk or in the squad room; phones ringing, criminals ranting and raving, witnesses and victims sobbing.

It wasn't anything like that in reality. 

At least, not where she was at the moment. 

Sergeant Donovan and another officer had responded to Jacob's call. Donovan had requested that she come in to the station to give her statement. Before Molly would agree to leave, she had insisted that someone official come and examine the scene for forensic evidence. She wanted samples taken of the blood that stained her hand, clothing, even her hair, and that was embedded in the grooves of her key. She didn't trust that evidence wouldn't end up considered 'contaminated' if she waited until they got to the station. She'd heard Greg and Sherlock complaining about solicitors getting evidence thrown out often enough, and she insisted the chain of custody was well documented as a preventive measure. Chapman was a rich man; and rich men often had an army of solicitors at hand, and powerful allies that could make things disappear. 

Anderson, of all people, had shown up in the next car. He'd given her and Donovan a pained smile, which Donovan ignored for the most part. "Lestrade called me. I don't know if you've heard that I'm back, working part-time."

Donovan huffed. Molly wanted to yell that it wasn't the time nor the place to play passive aggressive with your former lover, they weren't standing around on a social visit, but she bit her tongue.

Anderson caught Molly's eye and grimaced. "Right. Listen, Lestrade thought you might feel more comfortable with a familiar face and, well, everyone knows Nestor is not the most thorough."

Nestor was one of Anderson's replacements . . . former replacements, apparently, if Anderson had been rehired. He was also incompetent. Even Molly knew that, and she liked to try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt if possible. It was only a matter of time before Nestor screwed something up for one of Sherlock's cases, and then the resulting explosion would be a hundred times worse than any insult Anderson had ever received.

"Thank you," Molly replied. Anderson may not have been her first choice, but he was a familiar face and fairly decent at his job (contrary to what Sherlock might say).

Anderson had smiled in relief. He set down his case and pulled out a pair of sterile gloves. Donovan stormed off and didn't return until he was done.

Then they'd all toddled down the stairs and left for the station. There had been a flurry of activity until Greg had finally appeared at her side. He'd had a peace offering of a cup of horrid coffee in his hand, and an apology for being unable to take her statement himself on his lips.

Now she was sitting in his office, curled into an uncomfortable chair in the corner. There were several large interior windows that gave her an almost unobstructed view of the detectives and officers working out on the floor. She knew the enclosed space was muting some of the noise from out there, but still . . . quieter than she expected.

Greg was at his desk, looking through paperwork with a heavy frown. She knew some of it, at least, had to do with her.

Molly took a sip of her stone cold coffee and grimaced; then leaned forward to set the cup on the edge of Greg's desk. A glance at a clock on the wall told her it was getting late. It had been hours since Chapman had ambushed her. How much longer was she going to be expected to wait before Greg would be ready to give her that promised lift home? She'd talked about getting a taxi and had been vehemently shot down.

There was a faint commotion out in the other area. Molly saw several people stand up from their desks and cubicles, craning their heads in the direction of the lifts. Soon enough, Sherlock and John appeared, storming past the maze of desks and officers to blow into Greg's office. 

Well, Sherlock stormed and blew, his coat bellowing behind like some sort of superhero's cape. John followed at a slightly more sedate and civil pace; although he did hustle just a bit at the end to keep from getting shut out of the office when Sherlock slapped the door closed.

Greg was apparently expecting them, as he didn't look the tiniest bit surprised to suddenly have an agitated Sherlock leaning across his desk, pummelling him with a rapid fire stream of questions.

John, at least, acknowledged her presence. He crossed the room in a few strides to stand next to her chair, and she could feel him looking down at her. 

She had hoped to make it home and clean herself up before she saw him or Sherlock; but someone-- _Greg, the traitor_ \--had obviously notified them. She lowered her head and hunched her shoulders, curling in on herself. From under the cover of her lashes she could see Greg push away from the desk, putting some additional space between him and the consulting detective.

Sherlock never even looked in her direction. It hurt a little, but she wasn't surprised. Considering how he felt about sentiment and caring (utter claptrap), only an idiot would expect a grand show of concern from him. Especially when there was a case to be worked. Still, a quick "Are you okay?" wouldn't have killed him, would it?

Greg pushed a folder across his desk toward Sherlock. "Her neighbour called it in. Got his statement, then sent him home. He barely saw the guy, and what he did see wasn't enough to get a concrete description."

Sherlock aggressively snatched up the case file and flipped it open. "How did he manage to get past the safeguards?"

Molly assumed he meant Mycroft's men and the street people that had been assigned to babysit her when she was at home. But why would he be asking Greg about them? Unless . . . 

She curled her fingers into fists. Obviously, Greg was also aware of the arrangements Sherlock had made. Did everyone know? Did no one think she was capable of taking care of herself?

"Yeah, about that . . . I got called down to the holding cells an hour ago. A young lady going by the name Georgie had been asking for me, and the message finally managed to make its way up here. Apparently, she'd been brought in on a vagrancy charge earlier today. An anonymous caller, concerned about a 'sketchy' homeless lady casing the area. A patrolman brought her in. She said to let you know she's sorry, and you'd know how to find her if you needed her again."

Molly twitched. Chapman had arranged to have Georgie arrested, to get her out of his way, and the woman felt the need to apologize to Sherlock for it. As if it had somehow been her fault.

John reached down to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Molly instinctively flinched away from the contact. He quickly removed his hand and offered her a softly spoken apology.

"I had her released, no charges," Greg rushed to reassure Sherlock. Or, judging from the concerned look he sent her direction, his reassurance might have been meant for Molly.

Sherlock briskly nodded, his eyes rapidly scanning the information contained within the case file. "He had to have known she was being watched over, Graham." It was a testament to how tense the room was that no one even bothered to bat an eye at Sherlock's--usually annoying--mistake. "Mycroft's men are showy, they stand out. He should have seen them drop her off and wait until she was inside to drive away, and then made his move. But he removed Georgie from the area prior to Molly's arrival, which means he knew she was there. And, more importantly, why. It couldn't have been a spur of the moment decision. My people excel at blending into the background, he must have had someone watching her building for days; keeping track of when Molly came and went, and who she was with. He was tired of waiting."

He sneered at Greg. "Not an attack of opportunity, as the report implies."

"Yeah. I figured that out on my own. Listen, Molly was pretty adamant about naming her, erm, alleged assailant. . ."

She snorted. "Alleged, my arse."

Sherlock still hadn't looked at her, but she did notice that he'd tilted his head in her direction when she spoke; proof that he was aware that she was in the room, at least.

"Look, Molly, you know I believe you. If you say it was Francis Chapman, then it was Francis Chapman as far as I'm concerned. But there are rules we've got to follow, and Chapman is a big deal to some people around here. A really big deal. Donates a lot of money to a lot of important campaigns, if you see what I'm saying? I have to make sure we do everything strictly by the book on this one, or his solicitors will rip us all apart. I'm pushing it as it is, being involved at all. B and E and assault aren't even my division, unless there's a body . . ." Greg trailed off and blanched. "Anyway, the head of the department is a friend of mine. He agreed to accept the help of a few of my men since he's currently understaffed, and he's sending me copies of everything he gets."

He nodded toward the file in Sherlock's hand. 

"It's the best I can do at the moment. In the meantime, I would really hate to see someone come down on you, Molly. Solicitors screaming about false accusations. The papers trying to run you through the mud like they've done to . . . other people." He pointedly did not look at Sherlock.

She lifted her head the rest of the way and glared at Greg, even though she knew he was right. 

"Why isn't the blood analysis going to Barts?" Sherlock snarled, aggravated about something he'd read in the report. He must have found a copy of the expedited processing request that had already been sent off.

Greg sent one final imploring look toward Molly, then gave Sherlock his full attention. "Anderson and Molly agreed it might be best if the blood and skin samples were routed somewhere other than Molly's hospital. To minimize accusations of tampering."

Sherlock grunted, and continued to read. 

"Blood and skin samples?" John interjected. He looked at all three of the others in turn, waiting for someone to explain. "Whose blood?" The concern was obvious in his voice. She could practically feel the weight of John's gaze as he visually examined her for any signs of injury.

Sherlock's shoulders tensed and drew up ever so slightly toward his ears, barely perceptible if you weren't hyper focused on his every movement as Molly was. The folder started to crinkle in his hand as his grip tightened. He may have still been looking at the papers, but Molly suspected he wasn't actually reading anything at the moment.

"Not mine." For the first time since John and Sherlock arrived, Molly spoke clearly. She lifted her arm, exposing the stains on the cuff and sleeve of her cardigan. Dried brown splotches that would need to be soaked in cold water as soon as she got home if she ever wanted to be able to wear it again.

She wasn't sure she did.

"I broke his nose." Even though the words were addressed toward John, she kept her eyes trained on Sherlock.

He finally turned, and Molly's breath caught in her throat. His expression was stark and complex, one she couldn't remember ever seeing before. Not on his face. And definitely never directed toward her.

There was concern, but she'd seen that before. She'd even seen his face twisted in rage once, but not quite like this. Never had she seen them both at the same time. He wasn't angry with her, though. For her, perhaps?

And there, hidden behind the rage and concern, there was something deeper. Something she couldn't bring herself to identify because it looked so much like . . .

Molly refused to follow that train of thought. 

"What else?" he demanded.

"You broke his nose?" John asked in disbelief. He seemed to be having trouble digesting that small detail.

"I heard the crack, and felt it give under the heel of my hand; so yeah, I broke his nose." She didn't spare a glance for John. 

She continued to make eye contact with the intense consulting detective. "What do you mean, what else? I've told the police everything I remember. You've got the damn report right there in your hand!" 

Molly winced at the way her voice had risen. Other than the brief moment of shakiness right after the attack, she had managed to hold it together fairly well; but she was starting to have trouble keeping her emotions in check.

He waved the file at her. "I read what the sergeant thought was important enough to include, but there are barely any details other than the obvious." Sherlock broke off to flip through a folder to find the name of the officer who had taken her statement. Disgust contorted his features as he turned to glare at Greg. "Donovan? You seriously believed she was the best choice for this? Absolutely no one else was available? No meter maids with an hour to spare?"

"It's not as if anyone is going to accuse her of falsifying anything to help a friend of yours, are they?" Greg stood up from his chair and came around his desk. "She wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire, and everyone knows it. She's also one of the best I've got."

"You really broke his nose?"

Molly whipped her head around to snarl at John, "Would you like a demonstration?"

John's smile was boyish and disarming, and immediately made her feel guilty for barking at him. "Good on you."

She dragged her attention back to Greg when he spoke again. "They've sent a car round to pick up Chapman, but . . ."

"You're concerned since Molly is relatively untouched, and Chapman will be visibly injured, he may try to turn this around and accuse her of attacking him," Sherlock quickly summed up.

"Yeah . . . well, yeah." Greg gave her an apologetic shrug. "You don't think I should be? He sounds like a real gem, and that's the sort of thing arseholes like to do when they're backed into a corner. I've seen it before. Never ends well."

Sherlock dropped the folder onto Greg's desk with enough force that several of the pages slid out and nearly fell off the other side. "He won't. Not only would he have to come up with a plausible explanation for being at Molly's flat in the first place, he'd have to admit that a tiny, feminine whirlwind bested him in a physical fight. He would never be able to bring himself to do that. It would make him appear weak, and that is something Chapman wishes to avoid at all costs. He'll try to pretend it never happened at all."

Sherlock thought for a moment, hands against his chin and eyes narrowed. "He won't agree to come in on his own, and you haven't enough to issue a warrant just yet. He's probably already meeting with a reconstructive surgeon to have his nose fixed. No doubt, when you finally get to see him, there will be some fiction about a skiing accident or a fender bender to explain the facial damage. It will be his word that he wasn't there, against Molly's and her neighbour's. Chapman will assume his money and minor influence will be enough to let the accusation die. He'll have a solicitor on the phone the moment your man introduces himself; at least that's what it will look like. I imagine he's got a firm that's used to handling this sort of thing for him, and he's already contacted them to work out a strategy should Molly have turned to the police; but having a his legal representative waiting at his house would be too suspicious if he's planning to deny the attack."

"So I'm just supposed to let it go, then?" Molly grumbled in disbelief.

Greg rushed to reassure her, "No. We'll get this guy. It just . . . might be a bit more complicated than usual, that's all."

Sherlock snorted and looked to John as if he couldn't believe the words coming out of Greg's mouth. "He made a mistake in not realizing how much of a threat Molly could be. He didn't do his research. She's not just my girlfriend, as he assumed. She's important to my work, and by extension, that makes her important to certain members of the Yard and . . . other places." 

He'd begun to pace as he talked, and missed the looks the other two men gave Molly when Sherlock called her his girlfriend. She was just as confused as they were.

"Erm, Sherlock? Are you saying . . .?" John was the first to find his voice.

"What?" Sherlock stopped moving and realized they were staring at him. Molly had gone extremely pale. "Oh, oh. Honestly, Molly, I may have phrased it poorly, but surely you know of my feelings on the matter by now?"

She swallowed hard several times. "I-what? This is the first I've heard of it."

He frowned. "When I said that you were important to the Yard because of your assistance with my work, I didn't mean that was the only reason you would be important to any of us. You're very capable at your job, intelligent, and you're . . . personable? I'm not explaining myself very well, am I? John?"

John shook his head, incredulous. "That's not really the bit we're confused by, mate. It's more the 'Molly is my girlfriend' part."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "I thought it was obvious that Chapman thinks Molly is my girlfriend. It's even in the report." He gestured toward the file on the desktop. "Called me her boyfriend. My point is that he assumed that's all Molly was, and he didn't bother to look any deeper. Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

"I honestly have no idea, anymore." Molly rubbed her temples, and wondered how much longer she was going to be stuck at the station. A hot bath and a bottle of wine were beginning to sound like a necessity once she got home.

"Just to clarify," John began, speaking slowly. "Chapman thinks that Molly is your girlfriend. But she isn't, really?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in a way that should have been comical if it didn't make Molly want to throw up instead. "Did someone else say she was?" He made eye contact with her and frowned at the expression on her face. He looked so unsure of himself. 

Greg cleared his throat, freeing Molly from the hypnotic pull of Sherlock's gaze. "You think he'll send his solicitors after her, to try to keep Molly from pressing charges?"

"It's a very real possibility. Someone will be digging up dirt on her as we speak; he'll discover he's underestimated her soon enough. And when that happens, he'll default to what he knows best. He'll try to intimidate her, and when that doesn't work, he'll . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off. He blinked, then focused on Molly again. "Get out."

"Excuse me?" she squeaked.

"I said, get out." Sherlock spun on his heel and took a few steps to reach the office door. He pulled it open and gestured toward it. 

Greg sighed, and without argument reached for the suit jacket he'd hung over the back of his chair. John looked mutinous for a moment, then shook his head and reached down to offer his hand to help Molly out of the chair. She didn't need the assistance, but she appreciated the gesture.

Sherlock raised his hand to stall them as they started to file out the door. "Everyone but Molly."

Greg looked as if he were about to protest, but Molly waved him off with a confused, "Whatever. It's fine."

The moment the two men stepped through the doorway Sherlock slammed the door and turned toward her.

"You're moving into Baker Street."

Molly gaped at him as if she were a suffocating fish. "You've gone mental."

She could see Greg and John leaning against a table in the other room, both avidly watching her and Sherlock. It was difficult to ignore that they had an audience, but she tried anyway.

"Molly," Sherlock rumbled in warning. "I am serious about this."

"So am I. You've lost your mind if you think that I'm going to agree to something that-that-that bloody insane!"

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, and then shook a finger at her. "Give me one good reason why not."

She had plenty of reasons, and he knew almost all of them. Molly was tempted to smack that wagging finger out of her face. "I don't even know where Janine is. He's not going to find her through me, so stop worrying about it!"

"I don't give a shite about Janine!" he roared.

Molly jumped, startled, and he immediately looked contrite.

Sherlock reached up and cupped her cheeks in his hands, tilting her face up so that they were nearly nose to nose. "This isn't about her," he said, his tone much softer. "Not anymore. It's about you, Molly."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. Why would you, after everything I've said and done?" He released her and took a step back. 

After a moment of silence while he glanced around the room as if searching for something, Sherlock tried again. "We've already established that Chapman sees himself as the breaker of strong women. You have just proven how very strong you are. You've practically painted a giant red bull's-eye on the back of your jumper."

"Are you saying I should have let him-" Molly started.

"NO!" Sherlock surged forward and grabbed her shoulders. "Never. You did exactly what you needed to do; and I hope if you're ever in a similar situation, you won't think twice about defending yourself. Break his nose, again. Claw his eyes out. Do whatever you need to do to stay safe for me, Molly."

Molly couldn't contain the soft gasp that escaped her lips. There was no way she had heard him correctly. That simply wasn't possible. 

"Forewarned is forearmed, and we know how Chapman is likely to react to any threat to his manhood."

"Did you just tell me to stay safe?" 

He flinched, but--to his credit--he didn't walk away or attempt to deflect her question. "I did."

"For you? To stay safe for you." 

"Yes."

Her thoughts scrambled to come up with an explanation other than the obvious one. "But why?"

His hands slipped upward from her shoulders until he cradled her face between them once again. "Because . . . Because I need you." Sherlock paused, searching for the words to express the rest of his thoughts.

Surely he would say something about morgue access, or having a spare sounding board when John wasn't available. 

The longer he thought, the more distressed he seemed to become. 

"Sherlock, it's all right. Whatever it is you want to say, just tell me. I promise to try not to get upset."

"I . . . Sod it." 

She felt his touch grow firmer, one of his thumbs caressed her jaw and tilted her chin upward; then his lips were pressed against hers. 

Molly froze, unable to move, barely able to process the sensory input of Sherlock's firm lips against hers. They were cool, in direct contrast to the heat generated by his hands. His eyes were closed; long lashes dark against the paleness of his skin.

Before Molly could break the paralysis that had kept her still, Sherlock drew back. He touched his forehead against hers and sighed. The barest puff of his breath caressed her sensitive lips.

"You didn't kiss me back." 

"Sh-shock," Molly somehow managed to stutter.

Sherlock asked, "Is that good or bad?" His voice was small and almost insecure, at direct odds with someone of his stature and confidence.

"Depends."

He frowned and stepped away from her, his hands no longer on her skin. Molly immediately missed his touch. She wanted to cry out at the loss. 

"Depends on what?"

"Your motive."

"My mo-" he gasped, taking another step away from her. He looked insulted, then frustrated, as he ran his hands through his hair and turned to stomp away. He didn't get very far; Greg's office wasn't that large.

Now that Sherlock was no longer directly in front of her, she could see more than a dozen people raptly staring at them through the glass of the office walls. Her eyes narrowed in a fierce glare. All but John and Greg found something else to do. She saw Donovan weave her way past the others to speak to Greg; then she, too, turned to look at the arguing couple in Greg's office.

"Have I really given you so little reason to believe that I care for you?"

Molly's attention snapped straight back to Sherlock. Somehow he'd managed to make her feel as if he were the injured party in all of this. "No, of course not. I know you care about me. But there is a huge difference between friendship and-and the sort of caring that results in kissing someone on the lips."

"Damn it, Molly!" 

She jerked, and fought the instinct to retreat as he stalked toward her. 

"How many times do I have to remind you that you are the one person that matters most to me?" 

He was close enough to touch now, and Molly tried so hard to deny the urge. Her hands shook as her restraint crumbled and her fingers made contact with the wool of his Belstaff.

He bent to kiss her again. When his lips touched hers, Molly whimpered. Sherlock groaned in response, and she swore she could feel the sound vibrate along her spine like the thrumming of his violin strings. His arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her upward and even closer to his chest. She squeaked as her heels left the ground, and he took advantage of the moment to nip at her lower lip. The first glide of his tongue caused her knees to threaten to buckle.

Far too soon, Sherlock lowered her back to the floor. 

Molly touched her fingertips to her tingling lips.

"Do you believe me now?"

She cleared her throat. "Yeah."

"Good." He nodded once, and put his hands on his hips. "Good. So now that we've cleared that up . . . What were we talking about?"

Before Molly could answer that she had no idea, she noticed that their earlier audience had returned. Several people she didn't recognize were laughing amongst each other. Donovan looked utterly disgusted. Greg was smiling slightly. And John was grinning like a bloody fool. As soon as he realized she was paying attention to them, John flashed her a thumbs up.

"They're watching us, aren't they?" Sherlock hadn't even bothered to turn around to see what she'd been looking at.

"Yep."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Molly hesitated on the stairs before stepping onto her landing. She had thought she would be fine going home, but her first glimpse of the door to her flat gave her chills.

Suddenly she was glad that Sherlock had ignored her protests and accompanied her back to her flat. She knew he had come because he was still set on her temporarily moving into Baker Street; and even though she had continued to insist she wasn't leaving throughout the entire car ride, it was still nice to have his solid warmth behind her as she fished her keys out of her bag.

Holding the key ring in her hand made her want to throw up. Molly quickly handed the keys over to Sherlock when he asked for them. He opened the door and told her to wait in the hall while he made sure the flat was empty. 

When more than two minutes passed without hearing from him, Molly began to get worried. It should not have taken that long to walk through the small number of rooms and come back. She heard a muted thump from her bedroom. Molly moved before she had time to think. 

She peaked around her bedroom door, prepared to scream the entire building down if Chapman was in there. If he had hurt Sherlock, she swore she would break more than just his nose.

Sherlock looked up from unzipping the suitcase he'd thrown onto her bed. Her wardrobe was open, and there was already a small pile of clothing haphazardly tossed on the bed as well.

"I told you to wait in the hall."

"And I told you I wasn't leaving." 

He ignored her pointed glare and began to messily fold blouses and trousers before shoving them into the suitcase.

"Oh, for God's sake, stop touching things." She gently nudged him out of the way with her hip. Sherlock started to protest as she pulled everything out of the suitcase. Molly ignored him and selected a blouse out of the pile of clothing, then laid it out on the bed to refold. As soon as he realized what she was doing, Sherlock stopped talking.

She thought she saw him smirk from the corner of her eye; but when she turned to get a better look, his face was blank.

Molly gestured toward the remaining mishmash of garments he'd picked out. "None of these match, you know."

"Does anything you own?"

Either John had begun to rub off on him, or the perturbed expression on her face was enough of a hint to clue him in that he'd said something wrong, because he immediately backed out of reach. "I'm just going to take your cat across the hall to your neighbour. I've already sent a text to your friend Meena, asking her to pick it up on her way home from Barts."

"How did you even-" Molly trailed off with a glare as Sherlock pulled her mobile out of his coat pocket. She held out her hand, and he dropped her phone into it.

"I'm also planning to go out to the street to check in on Georgie, and see if there is anything new she can tell me. I'll lock the door on my way out. Do not open it for anyone."

Molly started to remind him that she was a grown adult who was fully capable of taking care of herself, but the determined gleam in his eye had her biting her tongue. She didn't have the energy to fight with him at the moment.

He'd barely made it out of her bedroom before she found herself calling him back.

Sherlock stuck his head around the doorframe and gave her an impatient look. "What?"

"How long?" How long would she be gone? How long would this craziness with Chapman continue? How long before Sherlock got tired of having her around?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he studied her face then fell to the suitcase on the bed. "Pack for a week, to start. We can come back for anything else you need."

A week? Did he honestly expect her to last a week at Baker Street without losing her mind?

She hung up a few of the things that he had taken from her wardrobe and pulled out several other items to pack. Molly ran through her work schedule for the upcoming week and made sure she had appropriate clothing for her shifts at Barts. Undergarments, functional pyjamas, and a few lounging-about-on-the-sofa pieces for changing into after work were added to the suitcase. With a guilty look toward the empty bedroom doorway, she tucked a pretty camisole and short pyjama set under everything else, just in case.

Other than toiletries, that was just about everything she could think of that she might need at Baker Street.

Assuming she even agreed to go.

She sat down on the edge of the bed with a huff, and closed her eyes. Of course she was going. She'd been fooling herself to think there had been any doubt in the matter.

"Are you ready?"

Molly's head jerked up and she nearly slid off the bed. "Damn it! I'm getting you a collar and a bell!"

"I apologize for startling you." Sherlock actually appeared contrite, and Molly couldn't help feeling foolish for snapping at him. It wasn't his fault that she hadn't been paying attention.

"Your cat is with your neighbour. Your friend has confirmed she'll pick it up tonight. I spoke to Mike Stamford and he agreed you should take the rest of the week off to recover, and he'll make sure everything is taken care of on that end."

She blinked several times, momentarily speechless. "Recover from what? I'm fine."

"I may have exaggerated your injuries, slightly," Sherlock tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall.

Molly hopped off the bed and followed him as he ducked into her bathroom. "I don't have any injuries! You lied to Mike!"

He reappeared, arms loaded down with what appeared to be half the contents of her medicine cabinet and all of the bottles and jars that she kept around the tub. "Exaggerated. Chapman knows where you work, Molly. Do you really want to risk putting any of your co-workers in danger, should he decide to try his luck there?"

Oh, he knew exactly the right button to push. 

Molly bit her lip, but couldn't quite come up with a valid argument. 

From the bedroom doorway she could see Sherlock shoving the last of her toiletries into the suitcase and then struggling to zip it shut.

"Are you sure this is really a good idea? Perhaps I should go to a hotel, instead."

He pushed past her to deposit the bulging suitcase next to the front door, then turned to find that she'd trailed along behind him. 

"There's nothing to stop him from finding you at a hotel."

She put her hands on her hips, frustrated with the situation and with Sherlock. "We already know he's been watching Baker Street, he'll realize I'm there before I've even had a chance to unpack."

Sherlock took a step toward her and reached out to pull her hands off her hips. "He won't dare step foot in 221B. After that blow up at the Barretts', he can't risk another public confrontation; and there's always the risk of some so-called journalist hanging about the stoop, hoping for a bit of filler for a slow news day."

He tugged her closer and settled her hands on his waist. Then he wrapped his arms around her, and bent down to briefly brush his lips against hers. "Then there's Mycroft. Chapman has dipped his toe into politics. If he's important enough to have been invited to the Barretts, then he must have heard of my brother. I sincerely doubt he's aware of how much power my dear brother actually wields, but he'd be a fool to come after me directly."

Molly couldn't help tilting her face up to offer him her mouth once more. She felt him start to smile against her lips, almost but not quite kissing her, as he delivered the final blow to her resistance. "I won't be able to focus on my work if I'm worried about you. Please, just for a few days?" Another brush of his mouth, barely there at all, and then he whispered, "For me?"

She whimpered, and pushed up on her toes to close that last tiny bit of distance between them. Her tongue ghosted across his lower lip, and Sherlock opened to her almost immediately. 

Her fingers dug into the wool of his coat before moving, searching for the man underneath, only to encounter the material of his suit jacket. She groaned in disappointment. Sherlock chuckled, causing Molly to redouble her efforts. One of her hands slid around his back and down to caress his perfect, firm arse; and when he gasped, she sucked his lower lip between hers and gently scraped her teeth against the sensitive flesh.

She pushed herself away when he moaned her name, just far enough that she could look him in the eye. "Do not, for one moment, think that I don't know you're trying to manipulate me with the sad puppy eyes and soft kisses, Sherlock Holmes."

He slowly released her and smirked. "The important thing is that it's working."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

"I can't believe I'm doing this." Molly stepped into Sherlock's sitting room and shook her head.

He pushed past her, hefting her overburdened suitcase into John's chair. It bounced a little and threatened to topple to the floor until he steadied it with one hand. 

"Molly," Sherlock rumbled her name. "I've already explained that he won't come here. He can't afford to have some annoying photographer snap a picture of the two of us arguing for some gossip rag."

Both hands went to his hips as he turned to her with that 'I'm smarter than you' look of his. She couldn't help but notice that the movement made his shirt buttons strain even more than usual. "This is the safest place you can be until we get this thing settled."

As arrogantly sure of himself as he seemed, Molly couldn't help but think there was something not right in what he was saying. Something tickled at the back of her mind, something they were both overlooking; but no matter how much she chased the thought, she kept coming up blank.

It had been a long day and an exhausting evening for her. All she really wanted to do at the moment was scrub herself raw in a bath until there was no more traces of Chapman on her skin, no more of his dried blood in her hair from where he'd yanked on her ponytail, and then fall into the nearest bed and pass out.

Her stomach clenched in protest, a stark reminder that she hadn't eaten since lunch. 

Change of plans. Food first, then a scalding hot bath, and finally sleep.

Sherlock had already settled into his chair. She would have thought he was off in his own world, attempting to work out the Chapman problem, if not for the way his eyes were tracking her every movement.

Molly flushed under the scrutiny. "Is it all right if I . . .?" She gestured toward the kitchen.

"Help yourself."

As she searched through the cupboards, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her back. She stopped after several minutes, frustrated and hungry. "There is nothing to eat in any of these cabinets, which is probably a blessing considering most of the contents of that one are toxic."

Molly pulled open the refrigerator door and pointed inside. "And I know for a fact that package of lunch meat was in the veggie crisper when Mrs Hudson asked me to clean the fridge out that month you were running about the countryside. I remember because it shared the drawer with a big toe; which has since disappeared, I see."

Sherlock dismissively waved his hand. "That case was a nine! And the toe was properly wrapped up. The meat is probably full of preservatives and filler anyway. It might still be edible?"

She shut the fridge and glared at him. "When was the last time someone did the shopping?" She knew better than to ask when _he_ had bothered to do it.

He thought for a moment, brow furrowing slightly. "What's today's date?"

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose, and leaned back against the kitchen counter. She silently tried to remind herself that there was no reason for her to be surprised. She should have expected something like this, really. "Look, Sherlock. I know you think you don't need to eat-"

Sherlock frowned. "Digestion slows down-"

She held up her hand to stop him. "Yeah, I've heard it before. I get it. I really do. I don't agree with you, but I get it. However, I am not you, and I do need to eat. On a fairly regular basis."

He continued to silently frown, and she wondered if he was even listening to her.

Molly rolled her eyes and sighed. "Let me explain it this way. If I don't eat, I get hungry and sometimes I get sick. I also get cranky. And when I'm cranky, I can get extremely uncooperative."

He scoffed, as if the very idea of a Molly Hooper who couldn't eventually be coerced to do his bidding was an impossibility.

"I shouldn't have to remind you that I routinely have unlimited access to scalpels and a rib spreader."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he studied her; then his gaze shifted to the side for a moment. It was almost a shock when he stood up and straightened his suit jacket. "Right. Take-away, then?"

"For tonight." She decided to press her advantage. "But someone is doing the shopping tomorrow. And there will be chocolate biscuits, or so help me . . ."

"Duly noted." He reached for the Belstaff that had been hanging on the back of the door. "Any other demands?" he asked as he shrugged into his coat.

Molly couldn't tell if he was being facetious or not. "A bag of Wotsits."

He made a face. "Really, Molly? Anything else? A pint of ice cream and a bottle of wine, perhaps?"

That was very clearly sarcasm. 

"Now that you mention it, that would be lovely. Thanks," she replied with equal sarcasm and--just to up the ante--a disgustingly sweet smile.

"I'm off before you think of something else to add to the list. I'll ask Mrs Hudson to bring up some clean towels so you can take a bath if you want."

"Will she mind? Me staying here for a few days?" Mrs Hudson seemed to like her well enough, but Molly couldn't help but remember the row between Sherlock's landlady and Janine.

"I doubt it. She's been dying for us to get back together since the moment you told her we'd broken up. I'm sure you'll have plenty to talk about while I'm out." Sherlock flashed her a devious smile before disappearing down the stairs.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

True to his prediction, Mrs Hudson seemed rather pleased to see Molly in residence when the older woman appeared a few minutes after Sherlock left.

"I'm so happy you're here, dear. Sherlock told me a bit about what happened. You just let me know if you need anything. Anything at all." Mrs Hudson took a long look at Molly, then hefted the small tower of towels in her arms. "I'll just put these in the bathroom so you can start your bath. If you'd like me to wait, I can take the things you're wearing downstairs to wash."

Molly looked down and realized that she'd managed to forget there actually were visible blood stains on her clothes, that the unclean feeling wasn't just in her head. She paled. Her skin began to itch with the desire to strip everything off and burn it.

Mrs Hudson held out a hand. It hovered close to Molly's arm, but did not touch her. "I can throw them away, if you'd rather."

Molly jerked her head up to meet Mrs Hudson's understanding expression. "How did you know?"

"I've been there, dear. The first time . . . Well, let's just say I took the kitchen shears to everything. Didn't really do much to help in the long run, but it did make me feel a bit more in control of my life at the time. Do you know what I mean?"

Looking at Sherlock's landlady with brand new eyes, Molly nodded. 

"It's up to you, love. Wash or bin. Your choice. "

Molly touched the cuff of what had been, up until Chapman, her favourite cardigan. It was tainted now, stained with his blood and the memory of his touch upon her skin. 

Then her thoughts jumped forward a few hours to Greg's office and her first real kiss with Sherlock. 

She was a sentimental woman, could she really bring herself to destroy something tied to that first brush of his lips against hers? 

Would that sweet memory be enough to erase the stain of Francis Chapman?

"I think I'd like them washed, please."

Mrs Hudson's smile was comforting. "Let's get you in the tub, and I'll take them down with me."

Fifteen minutes later, Molly was alone in Sherlock's bathroom, sinking into a tub full of steaming, lavender scented water. Mrs Hudson had brought up some of her bath salts, insisting the lavender would help Molly sleep better once she went to bed.

She'd finally finished cleansing the last traces of Chapman from her arms and hands. Her skin was rosy and felt a little tender to the touch. 

Now that the maddening need to scour herself clean was sated, Molly let herself relax. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and leaned her head against the rim of the tub. The heat made her drowsy, and she felt her eyelids grew heavy. She let them drift shut for just a moment, telling herself she'd get out soon and be dry and dressed before Sherlock returned.

"Molly."

Oh, that voice. That voice saying her name--just like that--that was the stuff dreams were made of.

Sinfully naughty dreams.

"Molly."

There it was again. Deep and lovely, seductive and impatient.

_Impatient?_

Her eyes slowly opened and she saw Sherlock standing in the bathroom doorway, his form lightly haloed by a warm glow from the hall and kitchen. He had a tumbler that was half full of what looked like red wine in one hand, and a bag of Wotsits in the other.

As far as romantic fantasies went, it was a little strange. Perhaps she was hungrier than she thought?

"There are those glasses again. I was right, you do look better without them."

Not a dream, then. Her languid mood disappeared, and Molly jerked upright. Water splashed over the side as she scrambled to shield her bare breasts against the side of the tub. "You've made it perfectly clear that you hate them."

He shook his head and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. "I never said I hated them. I said you look better without them. You're beautiful, regardless, but I have found that I prefer an unobstructed view of your eyes when I'm speaking with you. Or, at least, as unobstructed as your contacts allow."

_Beautiful?_ That was unexpected. Especially the way he'd tossed the word out as if it were a well known fact. Not a single hint that he was trying to wheedle something out of her or worm his way into her good graces. 

He spoke again, pulling her from her thoughts. "Nearsighted."

"Are you asking, or telling me?"

"That would depend on if I'm correct or not." He smirked.

"Nearsighted," Molly confirmed. She smiled, relishing in the familiarness of shared banter with him after the events of such a stressful and strange evening. 

Then she blinked as she remembered that she was naked in a tub of rapidly cooling water, and Sherlock Bloody Holmes was casually lounging in the bathroom doorway watching her shrivel up like a prune.

Molly cleared her throat and gestured passed him toward the hall. "I'll be out in a second, if you want to leave the wine on the table."

Sherlock didn't take the hint. He tilted his head to the side and continued to study the way her wet hair clung to her neck and cheeks. 

"Uhm, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Leave." She held her breath, waiting to see what he would do. Would he walk away, or would he come closer and pull her from the tub to do horrible, wonderful things to her? 

"Right, yes. I'll just be . . . Take-away is here, when you're done." He disappeared around the corner.

Molly loudly exhaled and leaned back against the tub again. 

"Oh, Molly?" 

Startled, she nearly slipped under the water before managing to catch the side of the tub. "What?" Molly practically yelped.

Sherlock's head poked around the door frame. "I just wanted to let you know that I meant it. You are beautiful. And I'm not just saying that because I saw your naked breasts."

"Get. Out." She threw the sopping wash cloth at his face. He ducked out of sight, laughing, just as it hit the doorframe. It slid to the ground with a wet plop. 

Molly couldn't wipe the smile from her face as she drained the water from the tub. She was still smiling when she walked into the sitting room wearing old, comfortable pyjamas and a pair of thick socks. 

Sherlock had dished up slices of sausage pizza on real plates and left them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Her tumbler of wine was sitting next to one of them. She could hear Sherlock moving around in his room, but the bedroom door was shut. Unlike some people, she was too polite to go barging in beyond closed doors.

Although, turnabout was fair play and he _did_ see her naked. It would only be fair for her to see him in the same state, wouldn't it?

Before she could do more than simply consider the idea, Sherlock joined her in the sitting room. He, too, had changed for the evening. Dressing gown, tee, and loose sleep pants. It took her a moment to drag her gaze away from his bare feet. 

It was all so bizarrely domestic.

"Go on, eat." He gestured toward her plate, then gracefully folded himself onto the sofa in front of the other one.

For some reason, she'd expected him to pick at his food, or possibly even ignore the plate entirely. Instead, he ate almost as quickly as she did, washing his pizza down with water rather than the wine he'd poured for her.

"Done?" Sherlock asked as he reached for her empty plate. "I got the ice cream you asked for if you would like dessert."

Molly waved him off. "Oh no, I'm full. Thank you." She took a final sip of her wine and handed the tumbler to him.

Her eyes started to close and then snapped open again when he returned from taking the dishes to the kitchen. 

"You look exhausted." 

"I feel exhausted. It's been a very long and eventful day, so I think I can be forgiven for not looking my best." 

He frowned. "Why should you need to be forgiven for anything?"

"I just . . . Never mind." Molly shook her head. "You're right. I am tired. Am I in John's room?"

Sherlock's frown deepened. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair and put the other on his hip. "John's room. Yes, that would have probably . . . The thing is, I'm not sure it's actually habitable at the moment."

She looked up at him in confusion. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I forgot to ask Mrs Hudson to change the bedding."

"That's fine," Molly sighed. "I can live with musty sheets for a night."

He grimaced and looked a bit embarrassed. "There may be more of an issue than just old bedding. I've been using the room to store some things Mrs Hudson didn't want to see down here."

She didn't like where this was going. "Such as?"

"A few experiments. Nothing potentially deadly. For the most part. Still, probably best that you don't blunder around up there until I've had a chance to sort it out." 

She shuddered at the thought of what sort of noxious things he'd been hiding away up there.

Sherlock offered her a tentative smile. "You can take my bed. I've slept out here plenty of times. As a matter of fact, I doubt I'll be sleeping tonight at all."

"I can't do that," she insisted, the words automatically popping out of her mouth without thought. "It wouldn't be right. I'll take the sofa, you take your bed."

They looked at each other in silence for a long moment, and then Sherlock turned without a word and disappeared down the hall.

She watched him leave, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. Molly wasn't exactly surprised; she'd known him for years and this was exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would do. And she _had_ told him to sleep in his own bed, so there really was no reason for her to be upset when he took her at her word.

Still, it just seemed . . . rude.

Shouldn't he have tried to insist one more time that she take the bed? Made some sort of gentlemanly protest?

That thought had her snorting through her nose in amusement.

Molly turned her attention to her suitcase and dug through it to find her toothbrush and paste. The bathroom was empty, so she ducked inside and got ready for bed. The warm glow coming through the frosted glass panes of the connecting door to his bedroom told her he had the light on. As she brushed her teeth, his shadow moved across the door. She froze, silently watching as his silhouette began to remove its shirt before moving out of view. 

Her mouth went dry, which was very inconvenient since it was currently filled with frothy toothpaste. She put her hands on the rim of the sink and lowered her head until she could get her breath back.

When she finally had the will to finish getting ready for bed, Sherlock's light was out. A small lamp was lit on his desk so that she could make her way through the kitchen and sitting room without bumping into something. On the sofa was a pillow and folded blanket.

She spread the blanket out and turned off the lamp before making herself comfortable. The pillow smelled like Sherlock. It must have come straight from his bed. Which made sense; it wasn't as if he were the kind of man to keep a linen closet. Assuming he even had the space for one, there was no way he would use it for its intended purpose.

Molly buried her nose deeper into the soft down pillow and tugged the blanket up to her chin.

It seemed as if only minutes had passed before someone was shaking her shoulder, forcing her awake. Even before she opened her eyes, her body reacted. Her fist lashed out, and she felt it brush against something without really connecting.

"It's just a bad dream. You're safe. Hey, no more throwing punches, Molly. You might actually hit me, and then you'd feel guilty." 

She squinted and saw just enough of his features in the dim glow from the street lamps to recognize him. "Sherlock?"

Yet again, he'd pulled her from the depths of a nightmare. Molly couldn't help feeling embarrassed at being caught in a moment of weakness by him, of all people. 

"Excellent observational skills. Of course it's me." The words were typical borderline rude Sherlock, but the inflection was soft and reassuring. 

She felt his hand hesitantly touch her arm, waiting for a moment to make sure she wasn't going to panic, and then it slid down to grasp her hand. "Come with me."

Molly automatically pulled her legs free of the tangled blanket and stood up. "Where are we going?"

"You are going to bed. I can't sleep knowing you're tossing and turning out here."

She dutifully followed, too tired to protest anymore. Sherlock carefully steered her past the kitchen table and down the hall in the dark. She felt, more than saw, that they were next to his bed when they finally stopped moving; the bedroom curtains were drawn and the room was nearly pitch black.

"Go to sleep." 

Sherlock let go of her hand, and she instantly felt bereft. "Stay?"

He said nothing for several seconds. She began to fidget, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"Are you sure?"

Molly nodded, even though he couldn't see her. It took a moment for her to find her voice. "I'm tired, and it's been a difficult day. I just-I would like you nearby? If you don't-don't want to, I understand, I mean-"

She felt his finger against her lips, silencing her. "I'll get the pillow from the other room. Get into bed and make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a second."

Part of her wanted to wait where she was, afraid that he was going to hide in the sitting room until she fell asleep. What if he was just humouring her to try to make her feel better? Then she heard it, the softest creak of the floorboards as he walked back down the hall toward her. Molly quickly crawled into bed. 

He shut the bedroom door, and seconds later she felt him slide under the bedding. Sherlock fluffed his pillow, huffed once or twice, then settled down next to her.

She bit her lip, staring up at nothing, and waited for sleep to claim her once again. The irony of Molly asking him to crawl into bed with her after her repeated vehement insistence that he do no such thing was not lost on her. That he hadn't pointed out her hypocrisy was a blessing.

The mattress dipped slightly when Sherlock rolled onto his side to face her. His hand reached out and gently touched her shoulder, then nudged her to roll away from him. "Over. On to your side."

Molly barely managed a stunned, "Pardon?"

"Just roll over." 

She did what he asked, and gasped when he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. He shifted a bit until he was able to curl around her comfortably. Molly felt the warmth of his breath against her ear when he quietly spoke, "Stop worrying. Whatever it is can wait until morning, I promise."

Eventually she heard his breathing even out and felt him relax against her. She wasn't sure if he was asleep or deep in his mind palace. Either way, his presence made her feel safe.

_And loved._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Sherlock's half of the bed was empty and cold when Molly woke up. She hadn't really expected him to be there. Hoped, perhaps; but she knew him well enough not to expect that he'd be able to lie in until nearly nine in the morning.

Nine!

Molly rolled out of bed in a rush and spun in a confused circle before she remembered that her suitcase was in the sitting room. She'd need to call Barts and let them know she was running late and . . .

Except, she didn't, did she?

Sherlock had already taken care of that.

Last night she'd been irritated that he'd taken it upon himself to interfere with her job; but this morning, a tiny part of her was relieved that she didn't have to deal with the outside world for a few more hours. Not that she would ever tell him that, and she fully intended to rip him to pieces should he attempt to do it again.

He'd left a dressing gown on the foot of the bed. It looked as if it might be the same one he'd left for her last time she'd spent the night. Molly slipped into it with a smile. This time she didn't bother trying to adjust it to fit, and the gown hem dragged across the floor behind her as she walked.

She ran her hand through her hair, lightly scratching her scalp, as she stumbled into the kitchen in search of a hot cup of caffeine. It occurred to her that Sherlock might not have any decent coffee hidden in his cupboards.

As she suspected, nothing but an ancient can of instant. Molly turned to shuffle into the sitting room, intent on going downstairs to beg some off Mrs Hudson.

Someone was sitting in John's chair. Someone who very clearly was not Sherlock Holmes.

Molly squeaked and nearly panicked.

John sat up straighter and turned to offer her a casual greeting, as if it were perfectly normal for him to be lurking about Sherlock's flat early in the morning.

Which, Molly supposed once her heart stopped pounding, it probably was.

"Is-is Sherlock here? Are you two working on a case?"

"Ah, no." He stood and shook his head. "Well, he's out on a case, but I'm just . . . here."

Something wasn't adding up. Molly narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

He froze for a moment, then his gaze fell on the open laptop on the desk. "Working on my blog."

"Why do you have to do that _here_?" That came out sounding a bit harsher than she'd intended.

"Helps me think? I mean, it's the right atmosphere for writing about cases. Inspiration and all that." 

Molly realized that John really wasn't very good at coming up with excuses on the fly. If she hadn't been suspicious before, his answer would have tripped all sorts of alarm bells in her mind. "Tell Sherlock I don't need a babysitter, damn it."

"That is not what I'm here for." John held his hands out in supplication. "I swear. Sherlock simply didn't want you to wake up to an empty flat this morning."

She blinked, considering his words. He looked sincere; although it seemed a little out of character for Sherlock to be that concerned about her.

Or, at least, it would have been prior to last night when he'd kissed her, comforted her, and told her that cared about her.

"All right." She bit her lower lip. "I was going to see if Mrs Hudson has any coffee brewed. Would you like me to bring you a cup, if she's got any?"

"No. Thank you." John's eyes flicked down to her legs, which were mostly bare under her sleep shorts and the slightly parted dressing gown. He quickly looked toward the open flat door. "How about I go find the coffee?"

_Ah._ Molly blushed and pulled the dressing gown closed. She'd momentarily forgotten that she hadn't bothered changing out of her pyjamas. He was probably hoping she'd take the time to make herself presentable while he was gone. "That would be lovely. Thank you."

Molly hurried over to her suitcase, which had been deposited on the floor next to John's chair, and rifled through it for something to wear. By the time she had finished changing and returned to the sitting room there was a full mug of coffee waiting for her. 

John was already busy hunting and pecking his way through another entry in his blog. She sipped her coffee, and wondered how he managed to get anything done in a timely manner on his computer when he typed like a novice who had never seen a keyboard before. It was oddly fascinating to watch.

Eventually she got up to examine Sherlock's bookshelves. It didn't take her long to find something interesting, and she quickly lost herself in a book about Ching Shih. The book was just beginning to go into detail about the pirate code she had used to command the Red Flag Fleet after the death of her husband when the front door of Baker Street opened.

Both she and John stared at the stairwell, waiting to see who would come up the steps. When Sherlock's dark curls became visible Molly relaxed.

"Hello, Molly. John. Anything interesting happen?" John started to talk and Sherlock spoke over him. "I thought not. Thank you for coming over, it's a shame you can't stay."

She and John exchanged a look as Sherlock pulled off his scarf and hung his coat on the back of the door.

"But, I thought, lunch?" John seemed bewildered. 

Sherlock gave him a piercing look and gestured toward the door. "Yes. Excellent idea. You should definitely eat lunch. Somewhere else. Perhaps at home with your wife and daughter?"

That was rude, even for Sherlock.

John shut down his laptop and packed it away in a bag, glaring at the consulting detective the entire time. The doorbell rang and Sherlock grinned like a maniac. "That will be Molly's food. Shall I walk you out, John?"

Molly was certain she hadn't ordered take-away, and she didn't notice John doing it, so she had no idea what Sherlock was going on about.

Both men disappeared down the stairs. She waited, perched on the edge of her seat, for Sherlock to come back.

When he did, he had a bag that smelled like deliciously greasy fish and chips.

Sherlock smirked and began to unpack the contents of the bag on the coffee table in front of her. "Fish, chips, and mushy peas. I wasn't sure how much vinegar you'd prefer, so I had him send along a fresh bottle."

"Him who?" The chips looked too tempting to ignore. Molly snatched one up and bit into it, then moaned in delight. 

Sherlock grinned and brought her a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "I believe I once told you I knew a fish shop off Marylebone Road. They don't usually offer delivery, but the owner offered to send his son over when I called to place an order for you."

"Why would he do that?" she asked around the rest of the chip.

His normally pale cheeks flushed as he took a seat next to her and reached out to steal one of her chips. "I, erm, told him the food was meant for a . . . lady friend, who was going to be stuck in my flat all day. I suspect he was hoping his son might catch a glimpse of you and report back."

"And now I feel like an exhibit at the zoo, so thanks for that." _Lady friend? Really? Who still talks like that?_

Molly opened her water and watched him devour the stolen chip, then lick his fingers. She was thankful for the water when her mouth went dry and her tongue threatened to stick to the roof of her mouth.

"You'll just have to come with me next time and assuage his curiosity in person."

The fish and peas were just as good as the chips were. Molly was nearly done when she finally brought up his earlier strange behaviour.

"You seemed awfully eager for John to leave."

"Did I?" Sherlock carefully removed the greasy paper holding the last bit of fish from her hand and set it on the table. He shifted closer and put his arm along the back of the sofa, curling it around her.

Molly's skin fairly tingled at his proximity. She found herself leaning into him and smiled. "You did. Why was that?"

Sherlock used his free hand to nudge her chin up toward his lowering mouth. "I'm sure you've worked it out by now," he murmured against her lips.

In the back of her mind there was the small worry that she must taste of salt and vinegar, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. Surely, it if bothered him, he would have pulled back after the first tentative press of his lips against her own.

She whimpered, lost to his kiss almost from the moment it began.

Molly had no idea how long they remained that way; joined in a sweet, almost innocent embrace.

Eventually, Sherlock drew back and looked at her, searching her eyes for something. He must have found what he was looking for because he smiled. His hand came up to brush a tendril of hair from her face.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Molly."

She wanted to remind him that he already had, but something in his expression told her that this one would be different.

His lips parted as he lowered them to hers. Sherlock licked the corner of her mouth, slid his tongue across her lower lip, and then claimed her with his kiss. Molly quickly opened to him; wordlessly welcoming him with her lips and her hands in his hair. Her tongue mimicked the actions of his, and soon they were leaning into each other.

He slid his hands to her waist, and tugged her as close as she could get without crawling into his lap. Her head dropped back with a ragged moan as his fingers burrowed under her shirt and caressed her back. Sherlock took advantage of her distraction and lowered his head even further to nuzzle against her neck. She felt the glide of his tongue against her skin, then his teeth nipped at the same spot.

Molly jerked. Her hands fell to his shoulders and her nails dug in.

Sherlock immediately lifted his head, concerned at her reaction. "Bad?"

"No. Good. Really good," Molly rushed to reassure him. 

He smirked and returned his attentions to her neck. The scrape of his teeth against her flesh made her ache. The feeling was electric. Sparks of pleasure traipsed across her nerves; a sweet warmth that spread outward before pooling at her core.

Molly groaned and tugged at his hair, pulling Sherlock up so that she could take his lips. She'd been kissed before, but none of them had ever made her feel overwhelmed so quickly. His scent surrounded her, and he smelled unbelievably good. But he tasted even better. 

The hair on the nape of his neck was soft and so touchable. She couldn't resist lightly scratching her nails across his scalp. Sherlock growled against her lips. His hands--which had been rubbing tiny circles against the small of her back--began to slide to her sides. Molly held her breath as Sherlock pressed his forehead against hers. His fingers continued to ghost upward until they brushed against the cotton of her bra.

They both stilled for a long moment. 

"Molly." Sherlock slowly pulled away, smoothing her shirt back into place with gentle hands. "Oh, Molly. We can't do this."

"I don't . . . Did I do something wrong?" She could have kicked herself for sounding so insecure. 

He laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. Sherlock stood up and walked across the sitting room, putting a large amount of space between them. He ran his hands through his hair and took several deep breaths, before he turned back around to face her. "On the contrary, you were perfect. I had thought it would be . . . Especially after the kisses we shared last night, I knew it would be everything I'd been imagining."

"And that's bad because?"

"Because Billy will be here any minute. We're on a case this evening, and I haven't a clue how long it will take. Criminals are becoming more and more inconsiderate these days, insisting on committing their crimes at ungodly hours."

"So, if Billy wasn't coming, then . . ."

He planted his hands on his hips and frowned down at her. "We'd still be necking on the couch like hormonal teenagers, I imagine. Unless, would you rather we weren't?"

"No, I-I was okay with that. Assuming you were. You were, right?"

Sherlock scoffed and gestured at his dishevelled hair and rumpled clothing. "Look at me. What do you think?"

The doorbell rang. 

He groaned and grabbed his coat off the back of the door. "Don't wait up, it could be very late before I come back. Possibly morning. Go ahead and take the bed."

As he skipped down the stairs, Molly realized he hadn't actually answered her question. Not directly. She bit her lip and wondered if this was how it started with Janine. Wonderful kisses and then quick escapes with the repeated excuse of "I've got a case".

Suddenly there was the loud thud of feet pounding up the stairs. Molly jumped up and hurried to the door. Sherlock met her on the landing. She started to ask if he'd forgotten something, but he stole the words from her mouth with his kiss. It was hot and bone melting, and when he ended it Molly had to lean against the doorframe for support.

"I prefer the right side."

She was glad to see that he was just as out of breath as she was, but Molly had no idea what he was talking about.

"The bed. For future reference, if I can't have the centre, then I prefer the right side."

"Oh. Okay. I'll-I'll remember that."

"Good." He leaned down and pressed a quick, nearly chaste kiss to her lips, then disappeared down the stairs once more.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

She knew she wasn't alone even before she opened her eyes. Molly carefully rolled over and smiled at what she saw.

Sherlock hadn't returned by the time she went to sleep. He must have come home at some point during the night, because he was sprawled out on his half of the bed (and then some), dead to the world.

HIs chest was visible above the covers, and deliciously bare. Molly didn't even try to resist the temptation to peek beneath the blankets to see what, if anything, he was wearing. She'd barely lifted the edge of the blanket when Sherlock put his hand on her wrist.

"Not nearly as exciting as you may have hoped for, I'm afraid. Blue cotton, a dully serviceable gift from Mummy last Christmas."

She threw her hand over her face to hide her bright red flushing cheeks. "Oh God."

He rolled on to his side and braced his head on his hand. "I thought you'd appreciate it if I didn't come to bed nude."

"I do appreciate that. Yes. Thank you. For not being naked." 

Sherlock nudged her hand out of the way so he could see her eyes. "Breakfast?"

"You're hungry?"

He sat up and quickly rolled out of bed. "Starving. I solved the case. Garrett took the killer into custody around three, and Mrs Hudson gets rather tetchy if she's woken up before dawn so I haven't had a thing to eat yet."

"It's Greg," Molly called after him as he snagged a tee and a dressing gown from his wardrobe and vanished down the hall. 

She'd barely managed to get out of bed and put on her own dressing gown when she heard Sherlock bellow "Mrs Hudson!" down the stairs. Molly winced and ducked into the bathroom, having more pressing concerns than chastising Sherlock for taking advantage of his landlady. He'd only ignore her anyway. 

As she brushed her teeth, she realized that she'd begun to think of the gown he'd been leaving at the foot of the bed as Hers even though she'd only worn it a few times. 

By the time she was done, Mrs Hudson was just placing a large plate covered in bacon butties on the kitchen table next to a tea pot. Someone had moved Sherlock's equipment to one side to make room for them to sit and eat, and the man himself was digging through a drawer in search of silverware. 

"This should tide you two over while I get the eggs going. I know how hungry you get after a case, Sherlock. Thank you for not waking me up this time. Although you could probably have left a note on the door rather than sneaking in to put it on my refrigerator. I might not have been alone last night, you never know."

Sherlock dumped a random handful of cutlery on the table, and circled around it to stand in front of Mrs Hudson. He put both hands on her shoulders and leaned down to buss her cheek. "You're a godsend, as usual."

"Of course I am, dear." Mrs Hudson patted his chest and sent a warm smile toward Molly. "Morning, Molly dear. I trust you slept well, then?"

Molly blushed as she recalled the evening before when Mrs Hudson had come up to see if Molly wanted to watch the telly with her. Mrs Hudson had taken one look at the sofa and its lack of temporary bedding, then given Molly a knowing grin and asked if there were enough pillows on the bed.

"Like a baby," Molly replied, then snatched up a butty and took a huge bite in an effort to appear too busy to talk anymore.

"I slept well, too, in case we're taking a survey. You should probably get started on those eggs now, Mrs Hudson."

The older woman shook her head and smiled indulgently at Sherlock. "One of these days I'm going to tell you no."

"No you won't." He smirked back and leaned over to kiss her cheek once more. "We both know how much you secretly enjoy coddling me." 

Mrs Hudson playfully smacked him in the chest with the back of her hand. "You're in a surprisingly good mood this morning."

Even though neither of them were looking at her, Molly felt her face flush and she nearly choked on her butty.

"The case, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock shook his head and tsked. 

"It's always a case, isn't it." Mrs Hudson winked at Molly. 

Again, with the knowing winks! Any more of that and she'd never be able to look Mrs Hudson in the face again. 

Molly could hear the older woman giggling the entire way down the stairs. 

"Ignore her. I usually do. Tea?" Sherlock poured a cup for her and then one for himself, before snagging a butty. 

"There are two cups."

He frowned at her before examining his own tea cup. "Very observant. Why is that important? Is there something wrong with one of them?"

"No, it's fine. I just . . . Janine didn't get a cup."

Sherlock relaxed. "Ah. Well, congratulations. Mrs Hudson makes a very nice pot of tea. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

She thought about trying to explain why the presence of that second cup meant something to her, but she couldn't think of any way to express herself without sounding like a complete fool. She was attaching far too much significance to it. It was just a tea cup, after all. Molly took a sip and nodded. "It is good."

She took another drink and settled into one of the chairs at the table.

"She likes you," Sherlock offered without bothering to look at her. "You already knew it, but the confirmation was important to you." He turned his head just enough so that she could see the warmth in his pale eyes. 

Molly shrugged self-consciously. "I know it's probably silly."

"It is," he confirmed. "But I'm . . . pleased, as well."

She enjoyed the rest of her tea with a wide smile on her face. 

Mrs Hudson eventually returned with a full English breakfast for Sherlock and Molly. She bustled around, straightening up the kitchen while they dug in. "Are you staying in today?"

Molly looked to Sherlock, and he looked longingly toward his laptop. "Unless a miracle happens and someone dies in a way that isn't excruciatingly dull, or something entertaining shows up in my inbox, I've no plans to leave. Everything in there now is boring." 

"Oh, Sherlock, I hate it when you get bored. I'm not sure the walls can take anymore of your boredom. You two have a good morning, try to stay out of trouble. I'm going out to do the shopping." Mrs Hudson stopped to pat Molly on the shoulder. "See if you can convince him to do the washing up after breakfast, would you?"

That seemed highly unlikely, but she agreed to try nevertheless.

The flat was quiet after the older woman left. Molly only managed to finish half of what was on her plate. She pushed the rest away, and wanted to laugh at the eager way Sherlock helped himself to her leftover tomatoes.

"You know, I'm really rather surprised you were okay with me staying here alone last night. I suppose having Mrs Hudson downstairs meant I wasn't actually by myself, though, right?" 

She saw a brief flash of unease cross his face. Sherlock dropped his fork and quickly stood up. "All done?" He didn't wait for an answer before grabbing both of their plates and dumping them into the sink. 

Unease _and_ avoidance. A double whammy of bad signs. What had he done this time?

Molly eyed him suspiciously. "Sherlock." 

"Fine," he huffed. "You've been living here barely two days, and you're already as bad as Mrs Hudson." He pulled the plates out of the sink and dumped the remnants of their breakfast into the trash bin. "I suppose you want me to wash them now, too."

"That wasn't what I meant. Did you make someone stand outside to watch me again?"

Sherlock turned to face her, leaning his hip against the sink. "I did not ask anyone to stand outside and watch you last night."

His deliberate and somewhat formal phrasing made her even more suspicious. She didn't think he was lying, per se; but she could read him well enough to know he wasn't telling her the whole truth, either. Molly settled back in her chair and crossed her arms. 

"All right." He eyed her for a moment, then threw up his hands in defeat. "While I was dead-" Sherlock ignored her involuntary flinch. "Mycroft decided it would be prudent to have someone keep an eye on Baker Street and Mrs Hudson. She's worse than useless after one of her 'herbal soothers', and there were still plenty of people who out there who wanted access to information I've uncovered and collected over the years. Once John moved out, there was no one left to check in on her or the flat. Mycroft knew I would be . . . extremely irritated if something were to happen to her."

He shrugged. "He hired a few people to keep him updated, and installed them nearby. There seemed no point in removing the surveillance detail once I returned. As you've pointed out in the past, I am gone for extended periods of time on occasion."

Sherlock tilted his head toward the sitting room windows. "First floor flat across the street, double windows with a view of 221B. My dear brother apparently bought the building outright. An investment property, according to his accountant." He rolled his eyes, then frowned at the way her expression had softened during his explanation. "Don't start assuming Mycroft has gone soft or developed 'feelings'. He's been charging me rent for it this whole time. Not even a family discount."

He sounded so perturbed that Molly couldn't help but smile. "I suppose I can live with that. Anything else I would want to know, that you haven't told me?"

"You snore."

She gasped, outraged. "I do not!"

Sherlock smirked and sauntered into the sitting room to open his laptop.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

By the time Molly had finished washing up the breakfast dishes (he obviously wasn't going to and it seemed rude to leave it for Mrs Hudson), Sherlock was buried in his work. He would occasionally mutter under his breath about imbeciles and people who insisted on wasting his time with lost pets.

She made herself comfortable on the sofa with her laptop and all of her research materials, and lost herself in her own project. It would have been a shame to waste her unexpected downtime when she could be working on another paper. Her last monograph had been well received in her field. The editor of a respected publication had even expressed interest in having her collaborate on another.

It wasn't until Sherlock waved a sandwich from Speedy's in front of her face that Molly realized how late in the afternoon it had become. "Where did you get that?"

He gave her one of his 'don't be an idiot' looks and wiggled the sandwich again.

"Right, sorry. _When_ did you get it?"

Sherlock sat on the sofa next to her and waited until she'd saved her document and set her laptop aside to hand her the sandwich. "I told you I was going down a bit ago. You waved me off, so I assumed you'd heard me."

Molly eyed him as she unwrapped her lunch. He was still wearing what he'd had on at breakfast, complete with his silk dressing gown. "You went out like that?"

"Mrs Hudson hasn't come home yet, and they don't deliver." He said it as if that explained everything. 

To Sherlock, it probably did.

She'd never met someone who was so meticulous with his appearance the majority of the time, and yet perfectly willing to walk around in his--admittedly high quality and probably very expensive--jimjams, or less, when he didn't want to waste time getting dressed.

Upon realizing that her gaze had fallen to his chest at the thought of Sherlock wandering through the flat wrapped in a sheet as John had described on numerous occasions, Molly blushed and scrambled for something to say. "You're not hungry?"

The smirk on his lips told her that he was well aware of the direction her thoughts had been drifting. "I'll eat at dinner, unless something comes up."

"Anything good? As far as potential cases, I mean." She gestured toward the laptop he'd left open.

"Nothing worth leaving Baker Street." He leaned toward the coffee table and picked up one of her reference books. "What are you working on?"

He looked genuinely interested, so Molly told him. Sherlock listened to the premise of her paper, then asked several follow up questions. She made notes on his input, hoping to address some of it in the final paper.

Her sandwich was long gone, and she had been digging through her notes to try to find a drawing she'd made to illustrate a concept they'd been discussing, when he put his hand over hers. 

"I've got another question."

She stuck her index finger between the pages of her notebook and turned to give him her full attention. "All right. Is it about renal parenchymal-"

"Did you want to have sex tonight?" Sherlock quickly interrupted.

Molly's notebook fell from her hand and several loose sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. "You can't just say that!" she sputtered.

He looked up from where he had bent over to gather up her things and finished putting them on the coffee table. "Why not?"

"Because." Molly realized that wasn't a real answer, but it took her a moment to find something viable. "Because that sort of thing might work when you're pulling at the club, but not when you're in a-a relationship."

"Is that what we are? In a relationship." 

She wasn't sure if he was mocking her or not. "I-I thought so?"

Why was she stuttering so much? 

"Was that a question? Either you think we are or we aren't, Molly. Which is it?" His face was blank as he waited for her answer, as if he didn't care one way or another. She hated when he did that. 

There was something in his eyes, though. Something that told her what she said mattered a great deal to him.

"Yes. I thought we were--are--in a relationship. I thought we were a couple."

Sherlock nodded and settled back against the sofa with a pleased grin. "Good. Now that we've settled that, do you want to have sex?"

What, exactly, was she supposed to say to that? Yes to the idea of sex with Sherlock in general, obviously, because how crazy would she have to be to turn him down after all this time. But doing it tonight seemed a little fast, didn't it? They'd only just begun kissing a few nights ago.

And that wasn't even taking into account how unromantic being propositioned on the sofa while wearing a pair of functional--but decidedly unerotic--pyjamas with a rat's nest for hair was. Wasn't even a little bit sexy, honestly. There hadn't even been a few passionate kisses as a lead in. Just sitting around talking about hypertension and renal disease and then let's have sex, which seemed like a strange jump even for Sherlock. "This seems very . . . clinical? I mean, have you never heard of spontaneity?"

"I have. And I fully expect that we can--and will--have spontaneous sex at some point in the future," he assured her. "However, I'm asking about tonight specifically because I haven't done this in a very, very long time; and I will need some time to prepare if intercourse is on the agenda for this evening."

She stared at him for a long moment, trying to force the words that were coming out of his mouth to make sense.

"I'd rather not make a fool of myself in five minutes or less," Sherlock clarified. He was starting to look worried.

Molly finally blinked. "I'm sorry, you haven't what in when?"

"Had sex. Since my first year of uni, to be precise."

"But-what?" 

"Oh, please tell me you weren't taken in by those rumours about my lack of experience or my sexual orientation." He grimaced and tapped his bare foot against the leg of the coffee table. "From my earlier inquiry it should be obvious that I'm attracted to you. And to set your mind at ease, I am not a virgin; so there should be no misplaced guilt about corrupting my virtue."

"I didn't think you were." Molly rubbed her temple with one hand. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I really don't understand. I mean, the papers? Janine? 'Shag-a-Lot Holmes' and the infamous hat?"

Sherlock finally began to look a little uncomfortable. He squirmed a bit and cleared his throat. "Ah, yes. Janine. She bought her cottage with the proceeds from all that salacious garbage. Not that I blame her, really. I have been informed from several sources that I treated her abominably." He shrugged in a manner that she suspected was supposed to be boyishly endearing, as if to say 'What else could I have done?'.

"You had to be informed of that," Molly deadpanned. "By someone else." 

He looked around the room quickly, eyes darting from object to object as if searching for inspiration before coming back to rest on her. "Well, I wouldn't have to be anymore. I've obviously learned from that experience. Moving on. She received quite a bit of financial compensation, managed to embarrass me publicly across a large portion of the UK, and I let her keep the ring. Other than the occasional snide dig at my manhood and personality, we're good. You can ask her yourself, if you want. I could call her, but with the time change-"

"No, I'm okay, thanks." She bit her lower lip and tilted her head to look at him. "So, you're saying that you and she never . . ."

"Had sex?" He waited for Molly to nod in confirmation. "No. I thought I had made that clear earlier. Did I not?"

She pulled her legs up and put her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees as she tried to process everything she'd just learned. "Huh."

He gave her a moment, then nudged her toes with his knee. "So. Sex. Yes or no."

"Hold on, I've still got questions." Lots and lots of questions.

"We're starting to lose the mood here, Molly."

Her mouth fell open and she sat up straight, nearly kicking him as her legs dropped back to the floor. "We had a mood? Wait, you were serious? You actually wanted to have sex tonight?"

The look he gave her somehow managed to make her feel both stupid and strangely aroused.

"How was I supposed to know?" She threw her hands up in the air. "Yeah, we've kissed a few times, but barely that even. I mean, you've never even touched . . . stuff. You haven't indicated you were interested in moving down the line to that sort of thing until the question popped out just a bit ago. There wasn't even any build up to it, just 'Boom, do you want to have sex?' And you just told me you didn't do it with Janine, who is . . . Janine. If you didn't want to have sex with her, why would you possibly want to with me? For all I knew, you were just offering because you think I expect it, and you were planning to lie back and think of England through the entire ordeal!"

"Are you done now?" 

She caught her breath and sheepishly nodded. "Yeah."

"Let's start with this, I didn't want Janine." Sherlock shifted closer and brushed a bit of her hair away from her face. "I want you. And I can assure you, England has never been on my mind when I'm near you like this." 

"Oh," Molly breathed.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she saw the tip of his tongue slip out to moisten his lips. Molly mimicked the action without thought.

He leaned closer, and at first it was just a gentle touch of lips. Then it became sweet, open mouthed kisses that seemed to last forever. 

Sherlock's hair was soft and fine, and Molly loved that she finally had a chance to run her fingers through it as she'd imagined so many times over the years. She scratched her nails against his scalp and he practically purred. 

Sherlock pulled her close as he leaned back against the arm of the sofa. "Do that again," he growled, a deliciously low rumble against her ear.

Molly barely had a chance to do as he asked before he was kissing her again, hard and hot. 

She came up on her knees and nipped her way across his jaw. His hands settled on her waist, then down so that his fingers barely brushed the upper swell of her bum. Molly licked the rim of his ear. When she blew on the damp skin, he gasped.

She was nearly giddy knowing that she could make him react like that, and knew that he could feel her smile against his throat.

"Would you like me to?" Sherlock whispered against her neck as he peppered it with kisses.

The sensation distracted her enough that it took a few seconds for her to ask, "What?"

He drew back and gave her a look full of seductive promise. "Would you like me to . . . touch 'stuff'?"

Molly froze for just a second and then laughed so hard she snorted. "Did I really say that?"

Sherlock chuckled and nodded. "I'm afraid you really did." He helped her settle back on the sofa next to him, although he kept his arms around her.

"Oh God." She dropped her forehead down against his chest, hiding her face. "Could I sound any more juvenile?"

"Probably. But you might have to work for it."

Eventually Molly relaxed. Sherlock tucked her head under his chin. 

"So. Back to earlier. University. Was she pretty?" She drew her lower lip between her teeth as she waited for his answer. It shouldn't matter, but somehow it did.

He considered the question as he gently rubbed her back. "By conventional standards she was, yes. As was her boyfriend."

"Wait, what?" She jerked upright. 

He scrunched his nose and tilted his head back and forth. "I suppose you're correct. Handsome would fit better in this context."

"Are you saying . . . Did you? With both of them?" It wasn't quite what she'd been expecting to hear. Although, it would explain a lot, actually. John always seemed to get a wee bit upset ( _a slight understatement_ ) when the media implied he was anything other than straight, but Sherlock didn't seem fussed one way or another. He always seemed more concerned with reminding people that he didn't do 'relationships' period, than with the gender of the unfortunate sod he'd been linked to.

"Yes. It was an experiment."

That sounded _exactly_ like something Sherlock would say (and do). "Of course it was."

"If you're finished interrupting? I was curious."

Molly bit her tongue in order to keep from saying something that would surely get her chastised again.

"I was surrounded by hordes of hormonal teenagers, many of whom were experiencing their first taste of sexual freedom and were gasping to indulge in all manner of recreational sinning. It seemed to be the topic of numerous late night discussions in the dorm, and I wanted to find out if what they were describing was true or merely fabrications created to impress each other. I found an attractive couple, a few years older and considerably more experienced than myself, who were interested in a bit of experimentation of their own--adding a third party with no risk of pesky emotional attachments to worry about."

Molly thought back to her first few years at uni. Admittedly she'd been more concerned with her grades than with scoring a random hook-up, but she had gone on her share of dates. Never once had she even considered having a threesome with a stranger. Then again, she'd never been approached by a guy who looked like Sherlock--much less one who was interested in hot, sweaty, meaningless sex--either.

"We met, had all the requisite testing done to insure we were all disease free, and then . . . we ran the experiment."

"Both of them." She knew she was beating a dead horse, but her mouth kept opening and the words just kept spilling out.

For the moment, at least, Sherlock seemed willing to humour her. "Yes."

"At the same time."

"Again, yes."

Molly tapped her fingers against her thigh as she thought about how best to phrase her next question. "Did you want them both?"

He shrugged. "As I said earlier, they were attractive. Neither of them turned me off, if that's what you're asking. However, I chose them primarily because they were a couple. Much more practical that way. I didn't have to go to the extra trouble of finding another partner of the other gender and doing all the initial prep work again. I was able to explore several different variables all in one go."

Sherlock's lips twitched and his eyes took on a mischievous glint. "Well, two goes, I guess you could say. We took a break for dinner and an evening lecture on campus. I came to two conclusions as a result of the experiment. While both of them were pleasing to the eye by societal norms, I was able to confirm that, in general, I find women more attractive and desirable than men. That said, without the drive to satisfy my curiosity, I wouldn't have bothered approaching either of them."

Only Sherlock would get distracted from sex by the temptation of an academic lecture.

"And the other conclusion?"

He played with her hair again, running it through his fingers to test the texture. "Honestly, I didn't see what the fuss was about. The resulting endorphins and euphoria weren't that different from dealing with the rare inconvenient biological urge on my own. Even at that age, there were other avenues to pursue that I found far more stimulating."

She couldn't help but tense. Molly pulled away slightly, gently tugging her hair free from his hold.

Sherlock seemed to know where her thoughts had turned without Molly saying a word. He didn't protest when she moved to put more space between them.

"I meant honing my observational skills and deductions, not . . ." He took a deep breath and lifted his chin. "I can't change my past, Molly. I can only try to make better choices with my life in the future."

Her eyes closed at the pain and regret in his voice. She didn't want to discuss his prior drug use, and he knew how she felt about it. She'd made herself very clear that day in the lab after his relapse. Molly reached out and took his hand in her own, squeezing his fingers to show she understood.

"So, no one has tempted you to give it another go since?"

Sherlock ran his thumb across the back of her hand. "I never said that."

The way he was looking at her, heavy eyed and intense, was enough to make her blush.

Molly opened her mouth to say something, and then snapped shut. She tried again and only managed a simple "Oh."

"Temptation pops up in the most unexpected places," he continued. "I've just never seen the point to having sex for the sake of having sex, when there were so many other--more productive--things I could be doing. There's my work, the experiments, organizing the information stored in my mind palace, even playing the violin. All of them are a much better use of my time than 'pulling at the club'. Wasn't that how you described it?" He paused as if considering whether or not to proceed, then pushed on, "I won't deny that The Woman tempted me. She was a puzzle wrapped in a perfect, beautiful body."

Sherlock frowned. HIs eyes lost focus as he looked inward. She suspected he had accessed a memory normally buried deep in his mind. "Too perfect."

Molly tugged her hand free. "I don't think I want to hear this, Sherlock."

At the sound of his name his attention snapped back to her. "Ultimately, that was more of a relationship of the mind than of the body. I was intrigued by the theory, but in the end neither one of us had the drive to move past the initial trappings of intimacy. She because her inclinations pointed in another direction, and despite her attraction to my intelligence I didn't have the . . . right parts to truly satisfy her needs. And I because I knew there would be no real lasting interest once the relationship had been consummated and my curiosity satisfied. As I said before, now that I'm older and wiser, I don't see the point of meaningless sex."

"I don't understand why you're telling me all this." How had they gone from discussing her work to talking about Sherlock's fleeting interest in sleeping with a beautiful and apparently gay dominatrix.

He shrugged. "Because you asked and I see no reason to lie."

When he put it like that, she couldn't really argue with him. No matter how much she might have wanted to. "Why change your mind now, then?"

She just couldn't wrap her head around Sherlock turning down a chance to sleep with Ms Not-Her-Face (Although it did sound as if she hadn't really been interested in the end, either.) and Janine, only to want Molly; even with the clearly mounting evidence right in front of her face.

She blinked, and her mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. Suddenly Janine's "Been there, done that" comment (when Molly had explained that she and Sherlock didn't sleep together in her bed) made sense. 

"Aren't you going to ask me where?" His voice drew her back to the current moment. 

"Where what?" As if she weren't confused enough already. It was so much easier to keep up with him in the lab or the morgue. She could hold her own with the science, but this was going so far past her usual comfort zone with Sherlock that she kept getting turned around in circles. "You've obviously got several different strings of thought going on right now, and I suspect I'm not following most of them."

He sighed, and she once again felt as if she were missing something important. Some little detail that would force everything to make sense. "Where are the unexpected places that temptation pops up."

"Oh." So they were back to that again. Who was he going to tell her about now? A hot blonde behind the deli counter? An attractive cabbie with a lilting accent? _Oh God, don't let it be Jim_ , Molly silently prayed.

Sherlock smirked. "The morgue at Barts, for a start."

"Don't ever say that out loud again," she hissed. Molly automatically looked toward the stairs to make sure Mrs Hudson hadn't been on her way up with tea or the post. "People will definitely get the wrong idea."

"People are unimportant." He rolled his eyes and reached out to grasp her hand, using it to pull her back to his side once more. "Did _you_ get the right idea, or should I be more specific?"

"Oh. OH!" 

As she looked up at him, she could see those beautiful pale eyes of his begin to dilate. If she could look in a mirror at the moment, she knew hers would be doing the same. She licked her suddenly dry lips, and his gaze fell to watch the movement. 

"Still, I'm not sure that it's quite appropriate, saying things like that."

When he spoke again his voice had dropped a register into that deep rumble that never failed to make her tummy (and other places) clench. "Does that mean you think it's inappropriate to find myself distracted from my work because a colleague is exceptionally good at what she does--and I have discovered that I find that extremely attractive of late--simply because of the location? That it's wrong for me to occasionally have the strangest desire to wrap my fingers into my colleague's ponytail to see if it's as soft as it looks. To use that ponytail to gently tilt her head back, so that I might give in to the urge to kiss and lick the hollow at the base of her throat. The urge that has been known to abruptly and rather inconveniently pull me away from my observations of a corpse on one of the morgue tables."

"Yeah, that . . ." She cleared her throat, her own voice had come out far huskier than she'd expected. "That last bit about the corpse isn't really-"

Sherlock released her and leaned back against the arm of the sofa with a pout. "I'm beginning to feel as if you are deliberately missing the point. You've distracted me in tiny ways for years, simply by being in the same room and just being . . . you. Then, so subtly that I didn't even realize it until it was too late, the distractions began to shift from mild annoyances to slightly amusing to affection. And recently, recently it has become attraction and temptation and-" He took a deep breath and looked at her with such heat that she thought she was in danger of melting right there on the spot. "And desire."

"I didn't know," she whispered. 

"Oh course you didn't. Why would you?" He cupped her cheek, the lightly calloused pads of his fingers played along her jaw. "I wasn't about to mention it to you. I barely even understood it myself, and I most definitely did not want to deal with it. Remember, I have no interest in sex as a purely physical release. So, on those rare times when you would wander past me in the lab--usually wrapped up in your many atrocious layers of polyester, wool, and lab coat--and the wish to strip each hideous piece off your body and drape you in silk or the softest sheets I own would slam into my gut like a sucker punch . . ." 

His thumb briefly brushed against her lower lip, and then he withdrew his hand completely. "I simply banished the thought to a locked room in my mind palace and moved on."

She missed his touch immediately. "Did that happen often?"

He shrugged. "I've managed to hide away all but a small handful of times." Sherlock pulled her closer until she was leaning most of her weight against his chest, and she had to tilt her head up to see his face. "But it was disconcerting that it was happening at all. My work is everything to me. It is very rare for simple physical attraction to distract me from my work, but you managed to do it more than once."

"That still doesn't explain why now. You've managed to ignore your interest for-for how long?"

"Months," he absentmindedly offered before leaning his head down enough to ghost his lips against her forehead.

"Months? Really? What changed?"

Sherlock pulled her even closer so he could whisper against her ear, "It's not simple anymore."

Her heart began to pound as hope blossomed in her chest. She'd known he was physically attracted to her; the kisses and their current conversation had finally managed to push through her insecurities where Sherlock was concerned. What he'd just said though, could that mean . . .?

"I'm not in love with you, Molly."

Just like that, the hope was gone. She dropped her head to his chest to give herself a moment to grieve the loss of something that had never had a chance to exist. His arms closed around her, holding her tight as if he'd expected her to try to run away. Sherlock's chest expanded as he pulled in a great lungful of air, before he spoke again. 

"I did some thinking after we talked that day in your flat. I realized that you were right, I do have 'feelings' for the people we discussed." 

She could practically hear the air quotes in his voice.

"If that was what caring felt like, then perhaps love wasn't something I was incapable of."

Even though she was so very disappointed, she loved him enough to be happy that he was finally beginning to understand what she had known all along. He had a heart, and it wasn't the frozen abyss he'd believed it to be.

He continued talking, pressing his cheek against her hair as he did so. "That, if I was willing to concede that I had feelings of . . . love for the people you named that day, then it was possible I might also have those same sort of feelings for someone else." 

Sherlock lifted his head. "Saying that you're 'in love' with someone implies a wealth of things that I'm not sure I'm even capable of. It's that first giddy rush, that initial overwhelming desire. A volatile passion that burns so hot and bright, it can't help but burn out. I can't be the sort of person who would feel like that, not about you."

He reached under her chin and cupped her jaw, gently urging her to raise her head so that he could see her once more. "But saying that you love someone . . . That's a feeling that's taken hold, deep down. It can't be easily swayed or revoked. It's got a stable foundation that so many things can be built on, things that can last a lifetime if cherished and nurtured. It's not as showy as 'being in love' but it doesn't need to be."

That horrible feeling of hope was beginning to return. She could feel her eyes beginning to prick with tears as she looked up at him.

"I can do that. I can--and do--love you, Molly Hooper."

"Jesus, Sherlock," she breathed, barely audible. The threatening tears escaped, wetting her cheeks as they fell. 

With a concerned and slightly panicked look, Sherlock tried to use the hem of his dressing gown to wipe away her tears. "Why are you crying? You shouldn't be crying. I fucked it up, didn't I? I knew I should have practiced first. What did I do wrong?"

She pushed the slightly damp dressing gown away and beamed up at him. "Nothing. Not a thing."

It was there in his eyes. 

She wondered how she could have seen that expression over the last few months and not recognize it for what it was. Love. For her.

Molly pulled him down into a kiss, wanting to show him what she couldn't find the words to say. His lips parted and Molly eagerly took advantage of the movement. Sherlock let her. She'd just begun to lean back--hoping that he'd follow her down because she needed to feel his solid weight above her--when he mumbled something against her mouth.

"What?" she asked as she continued to pepper his jaw with tiny kisses.

"I said, isn't there something you want to say?"

"Hmm?" She was more focused on the shape of his lips and the way they moved, than on the words he was saying.

He huffed and straightened, using his height to keep her from reaching his mouth again. "I just told you I loved you. Don't you want to return the favour?"

"Oh, yes. I do. Love you. Yes." Molly blushed and released her hold on his shoulders. "Sorry."

He smirked at her sheepish expression for a moment, and then bent to kiss her one more time. "I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Things had begun to heat up considerably (Molly had finally managed to get her hands under his shirt and his chest felt glorious under her fingers.) when the front door slammed shut and Mrs Hudson trilled her usual "Ohh-hoo!" greeting. Even before they heard her coming up the stairs, Sherlock had rolled off Molly and on to the floor, very nearly overturning the coffee table in the process.

He was up and standing behind his chair, dressing gown closed and tied for once, by the time she made it to the top of the landing. Molly had barely sat up and smoothed down her hair, although she did have a smiling greeting for the landlady when Mrs Hudson stepped through the door, arms loaded down with several grocery bags.

"Since I was out anyway, I thought I'd pick up a few things for you two. I know Sherlock hasn't been to do the shopping in ages, and I'm sure you're getting tired of take-away by now, Molly." Mrs Hudson hauled the groceries to the kitchen table and began to unpack the bags. 

Molly had hurried to help the older woman while Sherlock mumbled something about changing for dinner. He quickly disappeared down the hall to his room. Mrs Hudson finished emptying a bag, and then reached out and grabbed Molly's hand. 

"I've got horrible timing, don't I?

"Oh, no. We weren't . . . I mean, we were. A bit. But not-" Molly stammered, clearly flustered and feeling uncomfortably like a teenager who had been caught making out in the sitting room by her boyfriend's parents.

"We were. And yes, your timing is horrible." Sherlock called from his bedroom, and Molly flushed bright red. 

Mrs Hudson grinned in response. "You could have shut the door, Sherlock."

"You would have knocked and barged in anyway." He stepped into the kitchen and finished buttoning his shirt. 

"I wouldn't," Mrs Hudson denied with a mischievous twinkle in her eye that told Molly the older wasn't being completely honest.

Molly didn't know where to look. Her gaze kept being drawn to the tempting expanse of pale skin that was rapidly being covered by the dark blue material. She was very conscious of Mrs Hudson watching her as she, in turn, watched Sherlock. Molly grabbed a box of chocolate digestive biscuits and crammed it into one of the cupboards.

Mrs Hudson shoved a pint of milk at Sherlock. "Make yourself useful. So you're going out for dinner, then?"

Molly's head snapped up. That was the first she'd heard about going out to eat.

"Mmm, yes." He looked at Molly as Mrs Hudson gathered up the empty bags. "You may want to change. Though I personally find you wrapped in my silk dressing gown to be rather . . . appealing." He smirked, and she was reminded of him saying he'd fantasized about to draping her in silk earlier. 

Molly snorted when she realized that's exactly what he'd been doing each time he left the same gown out for her.

"But you may want to change into something a bit less casual than your pyjamas."

She took his advice and dug out one of the outfits she'd brought along for work. It wasn't anything special--just a pair of khakis, a paisley shirt, and a plain jumper--but it was better than the sweatpants and vests she'd packed for hanging around the flat. 

Somehow Sherlock managed to hail a cab instantly. It was an almost supernatural feat she'd seen him perform many times in the past. If Molly needed a cab, she was routinely forced to bounce up and down on the pavement, waving her hand like a loon for several minutes. If she was lucky, a cabbie would take pity on her. If she wasn't, well, that's what the Tube was for.

He opened the door so she could slide in, and leaned through the open driver side window to give their destination to the cabbie before following her inside. Sherlock had just settled next to her when Molly realized the man behind the wheel looked very familiar.

"Soter!"

The cabbie turned and gave her a brief nod in greeting. "Miss Hooper."

Molly turned to Sherlock with narrowed eyes. He shook his head and offered a quick denial, "Not me."

Soter spoke up from the front seat. "Wrong Mr Holmes, Miss Hooper." He gave his full attention to pulling the cab into traffic and left her to direct her confusion toward Sherlock.

"Why would Mycroft still have his men hanging around? I would have thought he'd have more important things to deal with."

Sherlock glanced out the back window as he shrugged. "I imaging Anthea has something to do with it." He turned back around to face front and looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "I'm under the impression that she has grown fond of you."

Molly blushed and made herself busy watching the pedestrians and other cars go by.

They pulled up in front of an unremarkable building with a small sign written in Chinese over one of the three doors facing the pavement. After they got out of the car, Sherlock handed a few bills to Soter (who took them with a grin). As Sherlock held the restaurant door open for her and gestured that she should go in ahead of him, she saw the cab pull farther down the street to an empty parking spot and the TAXI light switched off.

The restaurant was busy. The menu was predominantly written in Chinese, with the names of some of the dishes written out in English to the side. Sherlock asked if she had any preferences, then offered to order for them both if she'd like.

The food was amazing. Molly vaguely remembered John mentioning going out for Chinese with Sherlock in his blog, not long after they'd first met, and she wondered if this was the same restaurant. 

Every so often, she caught Sherlock looking up when the door opened. His intense stare would take stock of the new customer and then quickly dismiss them. She fully expected him to pay attention to their surroundings, that was what he did; but other than the brief examination of the people coming in and out, he remained uncharacteristically focused on her.

He listened when she talked. Offered her bites from the variety of dishes spread across their small table. Watched her mouth as she ate. He stuttered to a halt in the middle of a scathing discussion about Nestor--the Yard's current incompetent forensic scientist, who somehow managed to make Anderson look like a genius--when she licked traces of sauce from her lips. By the time they were ready to leave, Molly wanted nothing more than to lean across the table and kiss the stuffing out of him.

Sherlock led her outside, pausing in the doorway to scan the pavement and street before waving a hand for a cab. Soter pulled up almost immediately.

They arranged themselves in the back of the cab, and then Sherlock put his arm around her shoulders to pull her against his side. She saw him glance through the rear window again as they pulled into traffic.

"Do you think Chapman followed us?"

"Doubtful, but it never hurts to be vigilant." Sherlock relaxed against the seat and stretched his legs out as much as he could. "I seriously doubt he'd risk coming after you in public like this. Not to mention that I'm with you. He'd be a fool to try another abduction while I'm at your side."

Molly nodded, and rested her head on his shoulder for the rest of the ride home.

_No, not home. Baker Street. Mustn't forget the difference._

She thought about Chapman and what Sherlock had said. How Chapman wouldn't dare try to abduct her again while she was staying at Sherlock's flat.

Molly frowned. That wasn't quite right though. 

Chapman hadn't tried to kidnap her. He'd wanted her to call Sherlock and lure him to her place. He hadn't want to take her anywhere, at all. He wanted to keep her there, use her as bait. And then, when she lied and said Sherlock wouldn't come, he wanted to use her as some sort of warning or punishment for Sherlock to find.

Sherlock slid his fingers under her chin and lifted her face so he could press a soft kiss against her forehead. "Stop worrying, Molly. You're safe now." His mouth drifted lower, brushing against her lips once, then twice. 

Molly whimpered when the tip of his tongue teased at the corner of her mouth.

Soter coughed in the front seat. Sherlock huffed and pressed his warm cheek against hers. "Wrong time, wrong place."

She waited as Sherlock made sure the street and pavement was clear before offering her a hand out of the cab. He unlocked the door to 221B, then hurried her in. 

The muted sounds of a telly drifted out from Mrs Hudson's rooms. 

Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips, and took her hand to lead her up the stairs. 

"Tea?" he asked as soon as they were in the sitting room.

"No, I'm good. Thanks." Molly hung up her coat and rubbed her hands together, unsure of what to do now. 

He slipped his scarf from around his neck. She watched the material slide free, exposing the long expanse of his throat and the hint of chest visible above the unbuttoned vee of his shirt. 

_Oh God, he's gorgeous._

Sherlock finished hanging up his Belstaff and titled his head to study her. "You're nervous. Why?"

"I haven't the foggiest."

"Right." He dug through a small pile of paperwork near his laptop and pulled out a remote. "Let's see what mindless garbage is on the telly. Chair or sofa?"

"Chair or sofa what?"

He plopped into his chair, knees spread wide as he made himself comfortable. "Chair." Sherlock patted his thigh with his free hand. "Or sofa?" He tilted his head toward the other piece of furniture.

She knew what he was doing. He was giving her a chance to put some space between them, to calm her nerves.

With a gulp and an embarrassing lack of finesse, Molly crossed the small room and settled down on his lap. Sherlock pulled her legs up across both of his so that they dangled near the arm of the chair. He tucked her head under his chin as he clicked on the telly.

The programme was mostly white noise as far as she was concerned. Instead she concentrated on the feel of his chest under her cheek, his heartbeat against her ear, the firmness of his thighs under her legs. His breathing was slow and steady, other than the occasional huff as someone on the telly said something particularly moronic. Molly's fingers played with one of the buttons on his shirt, almost but not quite slipping it through the hole.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" She felt his head move, shifting to the side enough that he could look down at her.

"When you asked about having sex this evening?"

He squirmed underneath her and she could see him begin to drum the fingers of the hand not around her waist on the arm of the chair. "Are we back to that? I thought the moment had passed, when we went over everything earlier today."

Molly lifted her head to look him in the face. "Again, Sherlock, clinically asking someone out of the blue if they wanted to have sex later isn't a 'moment'."

She didn't think she'd ever seen him look so piqued in all the years she'd known him. And that included the few times she'd seen Sally Donovan do her best to rip him down with her pathetic insults about his methods and personality. 

"It wasn't out of the blue. There was a clear line of thought that lead up to it."

No, she'd been paying attention through the entire conversation leading up to the sex thing, and there hadn't been so much as a hint. "Okay, walk me through this line of thought, then, because I must have missed the important bits."

He started to speak several times, then frowned. His brow furrowed, and she desperately wanted to reach up and soothe the creases. "I told you how terrified I was when Geoff called to tell me that you'd been attacked."

She rolled her eyes. "No, sorry. And _Greg_ should have asked me before calling you, anyway. I could have told you I was okay, so you wouldn't have had to worry."

"Hmm. Did I mention how, when I read the report and saw that there were blood samples that would need to be processed, my first thought was that Chapman had hurt you? And that I knew if I saw him at that moment, there wasn't a force on heaven or Earth that would keep me from wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing until his beady little eyes popped out." His hands flexed, then curled into fists.

She whispered, "No." Her arms wrapped around him, trying to offer reassurance that she was fine.

He pulled her closer, seemingly needing to feel her touch as much as she needed to give it. "What about my utter knee-weakening relief that you weren't hurt?"

Molly shook her head.

"So I probably didn't tell you that realizing I wanted to kill a man for daring to hurt you was a pretty obvious clue that you mean more to me than a mere friend. That it must mean you were on that list of people I would gladly suffer for if it meant keeping them safe."

"Nope." She was starting to smile at his growing frustration.

He tilted his head down to see her more clearly. "When I finally looked at you, as you were explaining that you'd broken his nose, you had that fierce look in your eyes that said you could and would defend yourself. Chasing shortly behind that immense feeling of relief was the most inappropriate urge to drag you into the nearest room with a lock, press you against the door, and snog you senseless." Sherlock shrugged. "That's when I admitted that not only did I care for you, greatly, but I loved you and wanted you. Both in my life and in my bed. That's when I finally gave myself permission to do what I'd been wanting to do for so long, and I kissed you."

"Oh, wow." Molly bit her lip and reached up to touch his jaw. "That's actually romantic."

"I thought so. Just as I thought I'd clearly explained all of it prior to asking if we'd be having sex."

She shook her head and brushed her fingertips against his lower lip, fascinated by their shape and texture. "Well, there's the problem. You didn't actually tell me any of that. I'm sure you can understand my confusion now."

"A bit, yeah." 

He nipped at her finger. Molly squealed and nearly toppled off his lap.

After her giggles faded away, her expression turned serious once more. "So, back to you asking?"

"Hmm?"

"About sex. Asking if we were going to have sex because you had to prepare."

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back against the chair cushion. "Why are we still talking about this?" His head lifted just enough so that he could eye her down the bridge of his nose, and he smiled rather devilishly. "I vote we stop talking and start doing. What do you think?"

She lightly smacked him in the chest. "What did you mean by that, needing to prepare?"

His head fell back again. "Right. Well, as I explained and we discussed in excruciating detail earlier, I haven't had intercourse in close to two decades. I do remember the feeling being . . . intense. Extremely intense, in fact." One of his hands moved to rest against her thigh, and he began to gently knead the flesh there. "Therefore, it isn't difficult to deduce that I would be in danger of ending things before they had a chance to really begin if I didn't take matters into my own hands prior to engaging in sexual congress with you. Literally."

Molly stared at him for a long moment as she processed everything he'd said. "You wanted to masturbate before we had sex to decrease the odds of premature ejaculation."

"That's a rather blunt way to put it, but yes." He sat up straighter and tried not to look embarrassed. He failed magnificently.

"That's oddly sweet." Even as the words slipped past her lips, Molly grimaced. "What is wrong with me?"

"I'm sure we could come up with a list. The first item would most likely be that you love me, if that helps at all."

"Strangely enough it does, actually."

Sherlock leaned in to kiss her. There was no hesitation this time, just heat and bone melting desire. The hand on her thigh slid upward to cup her arse. Molly knew she needed to slow things down. There was something she wanted to say before she lost her head completely. She let him kiss her one more time before pushing away from his chest with both hands. His arms loosened to give her the space she wanted.

"Before things get out of hand, I need you to know that I'm not ready to have sex with you."

He arched a brow and the side of his mouth tilted upward in a lopsided smirk. 

"All right, parts of me are completely ready. However, mentally . . . I need a bit more time. I've only just found out that you care for me-"

"Love you," he firmly interrupted. "Not merely 'care' for you."

Her insides began to melt again. Molly struggled to strengthen her crumbling resolve. "I need time to adjust to the idea of us being, well, an 'us' before I can even consider taking that big of a step with you." She bit her lip and studied his face, hoping to get a clue as to what he was feeling. "I'm sorry."

With an impatient gesture of his hand, Sherlock waved away her apology. "Don't be. I'm at an advantage in that I've known how you felt about me long before today." He took one of her hands in his, and rubbed small circles against her skin with his thumb. "We don't need to rush into anything."

"Are you sure you're all right with waiting?" She knew there were some men who wouldn't be.

"I'd be an arse of the first order if I wasn't. How many years did you wait for me to stop ignoring my . . . feelings." There was so much disgust encapsulated in that final word that Molly should have been insulted. Instead, she rolled her eyes in amusement.

The telly continued to ramble on. Molly glanced at it briefly, but didn't register anything that was happening on the screen. She worried her lower lip as she wondered if she was making a huge mistake. Here was Sherlock, ready and willing to make another of her dreams come true (the first being his declaration of love); and she was wibbling about like an uncertain virgin on her wedding night. 

Sherlock shifted, repositioning himself and Molly so that they were both a little more comfortable. "You should know," he began in a deceptively conversational tone. "Even though I am prepared to engage in intercourse--that I _want_ to make love with you--I do have some reservations of my own."

Surprised, Molly jerked her head back around to look at him. Sherlock eyes were on the telly even though he continued to speak to her. "Small ones. Tiny, really. But they exist. Mostly I'm afraid I'm going to fail to please you, especially after such a long build up. What if the reality doesn't live up to your fantasies and you decide I'm utter rubbish at it?"

He finally turned his attention back to her. "I haven't had a chance to do any real research on the matter, and John refuses to leave his laptop here unsupervised any longer; therefore, my technical knowledge in this area is limited and out of date."

"Technical knowledge?" Molly grinned. "That's what we're calling it?"

"Hush." Sherlock's lips tilted into a boyish smile. "I just wanted you to know that I understand, and am more than willing to wait until we're both ready."

"Thank you." A tiny part of her continued to wonder how she'd managed to be so lucky. Surely everything that had happened that day was part of a dream, and she was going to wake up at any moment. 

"You're welcome. Now quit squirming, I'm trying to watch . . . whatever this is, and you're distracting me."

She liked knowing that she could distract him. Probably liked it a little too much, honestly.

They watched the telly for awhile longer. Well, she watched it and Sherlock zoned out after a bit. She imagined he was sorting through something important in his head, possibly in regards to one of his cases. Molly thought about asking if he'd like her to get up and sit somewhere else, but she couldn't quite bring herself to give voice to the suggestion. Every so often his fingers would twitch against her thigh or she'd feel a little tug on her hair as he played with a lock.

As one programme switched over to another, she caught herself yawning for probably the second or third time. She'd just begun to consider sliding off his lap and leaving Sherlock to his thoughts when he picked up the remote and shut off the telly.

"Time for bed." Once Molly was up, he took a moment to stretch out his legs and then stood. 

She hesitated, unsure of where she should go. They hadn't really talked about the sleeping arrangements for the night. She'd started out on the sofa that first night. Sherlock had crawled into bed with her the night before, but she didn't want to assume that meant they would be sleeping together now. Since they'd agreed not to have sex, would they both be more comfortable if she took the sofa?

Sherlock solved her dilemma by grasping her hand and leading her down the hall to his room. He must have assumed her uncertainty came from worrying that he was going to try to seduce her, because Sherlock was quick to offer reassurances. "Just sleep. Nothing more. Not tonight."

Molly wanted to tell him that she didn't need to be reassured, that she trusted him to be as much of a gentleman as he usually was, but her mouth went dry at the sight of him popping open the buttons of his shirt with one hand as he pulled open a dresser drawer with the other. Sherlock toed off his shoes and then dug out a pair of deep green pyjama bottoms. 

He turned to find her standing next to the door, mouth open in what was surely a very unattractive manner, watching his every move. His shirt hung open, the ends pulled free from his belt. Her hands tingled at the thought of touching every bit of that newly exposed flesh. Or, better yet, pressing open mouthed kisses from his throat down to his navel.

The pyjama bottoms were waved in her direction. "The things I do for you, Molly Hooper. I hate wearing anything to bed." 

She remained frozen in place for several moments after he disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of the toilet flushing forced her into action, and Molly scrambled to change into her own pyjamas. There was a huge contrast between the expensive material of his bottoms and the well-worn comfortable cotton of her vest and shorts. After a quick glance at the door, Molly dug through her things until she found the nice camisole and short set she'd packed. Even though they weren't going to be doing anything, she still wanted look pretty for him. 

Sherlock knocked on the door and asked if she was done changing before entering the bedroom. 

They shared a weighted look as they moved to stand next to their respective sides of the bed. It wasn't the first time they'd shared a bed, but this was different. This time they were doing it simply because they wanted to. There were no nightmares or houseguests taking up the sofa, no more convenient excuses that didn't hold up to the harsh light of day.

He pulled down the covers and flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. "Come to bed, Molly."

The temptation in his voice and words was more than she could resist, even if she'd wanted to. She slid into the bed, her heart pounding in excitement even though she knew nothing was going to happen. His arm reached out and pulled her close. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to have him spooned behind her. He generated so much heat that she knew there was no possible way she'd get cold in the night. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss against her hair, and Molly hummed in contentment.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

For the second morning in a row Sherlock was still in bed with her when she woke.

Even though she'd woken up at least once to find that they'd separated in the night, he was once again curled around her. His chest was pressed against her back, his arm thrown across her side. His hand-- _His hand!_ \--was on her stomach, under her camisole.

She could feel his fingers, lightly calloused from years of violin playing, painting small circles against her skin. It reminded her of the night she'd confessed about her reoccurring nightmare of his fall, only a thousand times more intense.

He mumbled something against her hair, possibly her name.

"Sherlock?" Molly whispered. "Are you awake?"

The fingers stopped moving. His voice was rough with sleep when he grumbled, "I am now."

She waited, holding her breath, for him to withdraw his arm and get out of bed. 

Time seemed to stand still as neither of them moved. Slowly, as if he was afraid she was going to protest, his hand opened until his palm was flat against her stomach, just above her belly button.

He groaned, his mouth close enough that she could feel his hot breath against her ear. "You are so soft. So warm. How is that possible?"

Molly hoped the question was rhetorical because there was no way she could form a coherent answer.

His fingers began to ghost against her skin once more. Not circles this time. Shapes and swirls that seemed to spiral out in an ever increasing pattern. Her skin prickled at the sensation, her belly involuntarily tightened under his touch.

"Is this all right?" His fingers paused momentarily as he waited for her answer. 

Molly knew that if she asked him to stop he would, but that was the very last thing she wanted. She nodded.

The feeling became almost too much, moving from innocent to erotic in the span of a heartbeat. She tried to turn, but his arm tightened to prevent her from moving. She could feel Sherlock shake his head behind her. "No. If you turn around . . . We agreed to wait last night and I want to honour that." He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again she could hear a husky quiver in his voice. "But I want, oh God, I want to touch you. May I? For just a bit longer?"

As if there were any chance that she would deny him at this point. "Yes. Please."

Those tempting fingers continued to caress her. They brushed against her navel, then upward in a lazy arc. 

Slowly the contours of the body curled around hers began to change. She could feel him hardening. Instinct had her moving, trying to increase contact with his body. They both groaned when his groin briefly nudged against her bum.

His hand slowly drifted, still creating swirls and patterns, as if he was giving her every opportunity to stop him. The first touch of his fingertips against the underside of her breast made her gasp. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then completed his upward journey with a feather-light brush against her nipple. An involuntary shiver raced through her body. 

She pushed against him, flattening her back against his chest and pressing her arse against his erection.

Sherlock moaned her name, and ground his arousal against her. She knew that he needed the friction as much as she did. 

He covered her entire breast with his hand and gently squeezed. Her budded nipple rubbed against his palm. "Perfect. So perfect. It's as if you were made to fit my hand."

She bit her lip as old insecurities reared their ugly head. "Not too small?"

He released her so fast that she couldn't do anything more than whimper at the loss of his touch. Sherlock impatiently brushed her hair aside so that he could press his mouth against the sensitive skin behind her ear. "I was so fucking jealous when I said that." She could hear the disgust in his voice and knew that it was directed entirely at himself.

His hand delved back under her camisole, and quickly returned to her breast. Molly whimpered at the firm caress. She squirmed, trying to relieve the building pressure between her legs, and Sherlock ground himself against her arse again. 

"I didn't realize it, wouldn't admit it, but that's what it was. Jealousy. You were mine, even then, and I just couldn't let myself see it."

He plucked at her nipple and Molly's hips bucked. "Fuck, Molly," Sherlock panted against her neck. He scrapped his teeth against her throat, then sucked hard at the sensitive flesh. He was fully hard, and neither of them were even bothering to pretend that he hadn't begun to rhythmically thrust against her.

His hand moved, abandoning her breast to slide down her belly once more. It continued its torturous path past her stomach and downward to encounter the waistband of her shorts. Molly held her breath, anxious to see what he would do. Sherlock gently bit her earlobe as those long, clever fingers dipped beneath the elastic band. They brushed against the curls there, then lower still until his palm was pressed against her pubic mound and his middle finger rested against her pudendal cleft. That talented finger nudged against her clit, and Molly called out his name without a single thought to what Mrs Hudson might overhear.

Suddenly he was gone. He rolled off the bed as if the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Molly turned to watch him find his footing. It was obvious from the tenting of his pyjama bottoms that he was still aroused. Impressively so. 

Molly ached to reach out to him. She wanted nothing more than to untie the drawstring of his bottoms and touch him in the same way that he had so recently touched her.

He looked so contrite, nearly panicked, that she thought she might have laughed if she weren't dying for him to come back and finish what he'd started.

"I am so sorry. We talked about this, and agreed, and I . . . I need a shower." Sherlock bolted for the bathroom before Molly could tell him that she'd changed her mind. She didn't want to wait. 

She wanted him.

Now.

Molly threw her head back against the pillow and drummed her fists against the bed in frustration.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

A quick glance at her watch told her it wasn't even ten, and yet Sherlock had already driven her batty more than once.

It started when Mrs Hudson appeared with tea, toast, and a rasher of bacon. She handed the toast and bacon to Molly, and passed a cup of tea to Sherlock. The entire time there was a knowing ear-to-ear grin on her face. Molly knew it had been too much to hope that Mrs Hudson had been out of the building earlier in the morning.

"I just brought you the usual tea, Sherlock, but I could fix something a bit more substantial if you've managed to work up an appetite this morning." 

"Oh my God," Molly whispered, embarrassed beyond belief. 

"Very amusing, Mrs Hudson. I see it's going to be a puerile sort of day. Have you been next door recently? I believe Mr Chatterjee received a meat shipment you may be interested in." 

"Sherlock!" Molly's jawed dropped open in horror.

"Really, Sherlock. You could have just asked me to leave. You've done it plenty of times before."

He blanched and swallowed. His eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again his entire countenance was softer. "I apologize. That was . . . uncalled for."

Mrs Hudson held firm for a moment, then she took pity on him. "I suppose I started it. Teasing you about your new, well, about you and Molly." 

Sherlock stopped her before she made it to the stairs, calling out toward her retreating form. "His wife in Doncaster did sign the divorce papers. He wasn't lying about that."

"Oh, that's wonderful news. Thank you." From her vantage point in the small kitchen, Molly saw Mrs Hudson come flying back into view, grab Sherlock's face between both of her hands, and plant a pale mauve tinted kiss on his cheek.

He was still trying to scrub the landlady's lipstick off his skin with his handkerchief when they heard the front door slam shut.

"I still haven't had the heart to mention the wife in Islamabad yet." He turned to find Molly glaring at him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You think I should tell her now?"

Molly shook her head. "That was rude."

"Ah, yes, I did manage to come to that conclusion on my own." He tossed the soiled handkerchief onto his desk, and hopped into his chair to reach for his teacup with his knees drawn up to his chest.

"Aren't you going to make it up to her?"

Sherlock stared at her over the top of his cup, his nose crinkled in confusion. "I apologized, what more would I need to do?"

Why was she surprised? 

He sighed and set his cup aside. "I'll have flowers sent. Will that do?"

"Really?" She joined him in the sitting room and leaned her hip against John's chair. "Will you write something nice on the card?"

"Do you want her to believe the gesture is sincere, or not?"

She wanted to argue with him, but he was right. "Fair enough." 

He bounced out of his chair and slipped past her into the kitchen. Before she could stop him, he'd snagged half of her bacon and a piece of her toast. 

"Hey! I thought you weren't hungry?" She, on the other hand, was starving.

"I never said that." Once his hands were empty, he took the few steps necessary to stand in front of her. "I'm ravenous, and you look delicious." 

Sherlock tried to lean in to kiss her, but Molly broke into a fit of giggles. She looked up to find him pouting, and had to try to tamp down her mirth.

"I'm sorry, it's just, well, that was a horrible line. Oh, come on, don't run off." She cleared her throat and forced herself to look serious. "I'm good now. No more laughing."

He waited for a moment, eyeing her suspiciously until he was certain she was done giggling, and then kissed her. He drew her lower lip between his teeth and Molly's knees buckled. Her arse hit the arm of John's chair, and Sherlock bounced away with a smirk to steal the last of her breakfast.

And he kept doing it over and over, all morning. Anytime she came within touching distance he would take her hand, pull her close, and kiss her until her eyes practically crossed. Then he'd go back to working on his laptop or pacing around the room. 

"You can't keep doing that, you know." Her lips still tingled from his latest assault. 

Sherlock didn't stop digging through the pile of mail on the mantel, several pieces of which were tacked down with the blade of a multitool. "What?" he asked, clearly restless.

"Kissing me when you've got nothing else to do. I mean, I like it when you kiss me, but not when you're only doing it because you're bored. I'm not just here for your amusement."

He froze for a long moment, then turned with a calculating look upon his face. "You could be."

"What?" What the hell was that supposed to mean?

His eyes darted about the room, analyzing what he'd said. Sherlock took a step in her direction. "I mean . . . you could visit more often, after everything with that arsehole Chapman is settled."

He shrugged his shoulders and took another step. "Or I could come to your place. Although, all of my things are here. And my bed is bigger. The mattress is definitely much nicer. Plus I prefer my sheets to yours, but I'm willing to adjust if needs must."

"Sherlock."

"Right, point. More time together. Not necessarily all the time, not yet at any rate. I don't know if either if us is quite ready for that. Not sure we ever will be, but I'm willing to consider it. If we make an effort, it could work, I think. You're quiet when you're not fidgeting. I like quiet when I'm thinking. You haven't complained about my violin. You smell nice. Very nice. Sitting next to you last night was . . . nice?" He titled his head and studied her expression, brow furrowing. "That's not the right word, is it?"

She realized he was nervous. Sherlock Holmes was babbling. Throw in a stutter or two, and he'd sound just like Molly when she was flustered. 

"Sherlock," she said again, although there wasn't a trace of her earlier irritation.

"I'm not just kissing you because I'm bored, Molly. I like kissing you. Very much so. I almost feel as if I _need_ to whenever I get close to you." He frowned. "It's rather distracting, actually. Perhaps the need will fade once we . . . Once I've had a chance to get used to it. I've held myself away from any real physical intimacy with anyone for so long, now that I've allowed myself the indulgence, I can't seem to get enough. Is that normal?"

Molly bit her lip and nodded. "It's not uncommon in new relationships."

"Do you not feel the same way?" The uncertainty in his question made her heart ache.

She rushed to reassure him. "Oh, I do. But I've spent years keeping my hands to myself in regards to you."

"Don't. Not anymore." He held one of his hands out to her, fingers beckoning her to come closer. "Although do try to exhibit some restraint in public. I won't have vulgar gossip about us getting out. I will not have those idiots in the press tearing you apart like a pack of vultures."

"Oh, Sherlock." She closed the distance between them and slid her hand into his. 

He dropped into his chair and pulled her down onto his lap. Sherlock slid his hands into her hair and kissed her. His tongue slipped between her lips, just as her fingers slipped into the space between the buttons of his shirt. Her nails scraped against his chest. 

He groaned her name against her temple and shivered. His hand flattened against hers, holding it still. She wondered if she'd gone too far, done too much, after what had happened that morning. 

Sherlock flicked open his shirt buttons as he slanted his mouth over hers. He guided her hand back to his chest, now completely exposed to her touch. That was all the encouragement she needed. Her exploring fingers found his nipple, and he gasped.

His arousal began to harden against her hip. 

She twisted, trying to wriggle her other hand between them so that she could reach the growing evidence of his desire.

He growled her name. The sound was harsh and ragged, a warning that she had no intention of heeding. Especially when it was immediately followed by a slow thrust of his hips that pushed his erection against her hand.

Molly captured his nipple between her thumb and finger and pulled. Sherlock bit at her lower lip, the gentle nipping of earlier kisses a fleeting thought.

Someone cleared their throat.

"For God's sake, again?" Sherlock grumbled against her mouth before he loosened his hold enough that she could hop off his lap.

Molly adjusted her blouse and brushed out a few wrinkles in her trousers in the hopes that some of flaming heat in her face might dissipate before she had to make eye contact with John, Mary, or Mrs Hudson. From the corner of her eye she could see Sherlock still in the chair, long legs nonchalantly crossed, calmly rebuttoning his shirt, and in no apparent hurry to make himself presentable.

"Sorry to interrupt, dears, but I'm guessing you didn't hear the doorbell." Mrs Hudson bit her lip and Molly knew with absolute certainty that the older woman was trying not to grin.

John wasn't bothering to mask his humour at all. He stood in the doorway, smirking like a fool.

Mary, on the other hand, didn't seem at all surprised to find Molly and Sherlock in a mildly compromising position. She simply smiled and greeted the two of them as she moved further into the sitting room and began to pull off her jacket. 

John started to do the same. He paused long enough to tease, "You did ask me to come over for a play date, Sherlock, but if this is a bad time . . ." 

"Do shut up." Sherlock stood and tucked in his shirt. "Don't bother taking your jacket off, we're leaving."

"Of course we are." 

As Sherlock pulled on his Belstaff, John took a moment to give Mary a kiss on the cheek and promise that he'd text if they were going to be out for more than a few hours.

Sherlock disappeared down the stairs without a backward glance. Molly felt a tiny stab of disappointment, but she realistically hadn't expected him to do anything else. His work had always been the priority, and she didn't think that was going to change just because they were a couple now. 

The last few days had taught her that she didn't need his constant attention to be happy, especially knowing that he wanted her to be an important part of his life. 

"So, how long as this been going on?"

Molly grimaced. Somehow she'd managed to forget that Mary was still there. Who knew how long she'd been wistfully gazing down the stairs after the men left. She pasted a smile on her face and turned to face her friend.

"Don't expect me to believe that you haven't had John repeat all the salacious details from the other night at Scotland Yard at least twice already."

Mary grinned in response. "Guilty. Tea?"

"I could kill a cup."

While Molly got the kettle going, Mary leaned against the door in the kitchen that lead to the stairs. 

"When Sherlock mentioned that he and John would be going out today, I didn't realize you'd be coming over, too. Not that it isn't-I mean, it's nice to see you again."

Mary lifted a shoulder. "I was desperate for a few hours of adult, female company."

"Where is Bethany?" Molly asked over her shoulder as she dug a box of tea bags out of one of the cupboards. 

"We're testing out a crèche, trying to make sure we have the right one before we need one for an emergency." Mary gestured toward the cabinets. "Do you happen to know if Mrs Hudson took pity on us all and hid some biscuits up there?"

Molly pulled the box of chocolate digestives out and tossed it at Mary, who easily caught it. 

"That woman is a saint."

"Most of the time," Molly grumbled. The kettle began to whistle, and Molly set about preparing two cups of tea.

"I take it this afternoon wasn't the first time she's caught you with your hand in the cookie jar?" Mary grinned and opened the biscuit box. "And by cookie jar, I clearly mean Sherlock's trou-"

"Mary!"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

At first Molly didn't notice anything strange. She was too caught up in the novelty of being able to talk to someone about the changes in her relationship with Sherlock. She hadn't been able to talk to Meena for more than a few minutes on the phone, and that had been taken up with making sure Toby wasn't making too much of a pest of himself.

Mary had been happy to listen, after the initial "I knew it!" was said and done. Then there were amusing stories about Bethany and John, which meant Molly didn't spend the entire afternoon feeling as if she were under the spotlight.

Still, there was something off about it all.

The little things slowly began to add up. When Molly took her teacup into the sitting room and settled into Sherlock's chair and expected Mary to sit in John's so they could talk, Mary chose the sofa. When Molly offered to put together some sandwiches, Mary stood near the door and told her anecdotes about Sherlock getting down on the floor so that he could be on Bethany's level for proper baby/godfather bonding. When Molly's phone chimed with a text and she had to search for it on Sherlock's desk, Mary suddenly appeared at her side with an offer to help.

It took Molly ages to realize that no matter where she moved in the flat, Mary found a way to be between Molly and the stairs (or the windows if Molly strayed too close to that part of the sitting room).

Even stranger, Mary never seemed to fully relax. Originally, Molly had chalked it up to some sort of Mother's Instinct; maternal anxiety brought on by being separated from her daughter. Mary did seem to relax a bit when she called the crèche to check on Bethany. But when she considered Mary's strange alertness and tension along with the other things . . . 

The downstairs door banged open. Within seconds Mary was off the sofa and in the doorway.

John and Sherlock barely made it to the top of the stairs before Molly was covering her nose. "What is that stench?"

"Horse manure." Sherlock didn't bother to elaborate; just asked for someone to fetch a bin liner and began to strip off his coat.

"But _why_ are you covered in horse manure?" Molly asked as she brought the requested bag to Sherlock.

"Because the Barretts have a stable and your boyfriend is a git," John bit off.

Mary and Molly both looked to Sherlock, uncertain as to how he would react to being called Molly's boyfriend. 

He merely smirked and gave Molly a salacious wink before heading down the hall to the bathroom. He paused long enough to say, "Give me fifteen minutes to clean up and I'll explain everything. John, if you'd prefer to save Mary the bother of breathing through her mouth the entire car ride, you're welcome to use the shower after I'm done. I'm sure I've got something that you can borrow to wear home." He disappeared and then popped back into view. "In the meantime, don't . . . touch anything."

John's hands clenched at his sides. "I swear I'm going murder him one of these days."

Mary laughed. "If you haven't done it by now, he's probably safe." 

It took Sherlock a little longer than the promised fifteen minutes to return. He walked into the sitting room with damp hair, carrying a bag full of the things he'd been wearing including--presumably--his coat. Even though he'd changed into trousers, a dress shirt, and his blue dressing gown, he was wandering around barefoot. 

"I left the clothes on the toilet, along with a bin liner for your soiled things." He nodded his head toward the bathroom. 

John gratefully took the hint and hurried to the bathroom.

In her peripheral vision, Molly caught Sherlock and Mary exchanging a meaningful look. Almost immediately the Mary that Molly was used to was back. The other woman plopped down into John's chair and leaned her head back to watch Sherlock dump his bag of smelly clothes next to the door. "So, the horse poop. You were going to tell us how that happened."

Sherlock moved to the windows and glanced out and then checked his watch. "Not quite yet. Another ten minutes should do it."

John had just returned from his shower--looking a bit unfortunate in a vest that was too tight across the chest and a pair of sweatpants that were too long--when Mrs Hudson led Mycroft up the stairs.

"Sherlock, it's your brother. Should I put a kettle on?"

Mycroft directed a smile toward her, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That won't be necessary, Mrs Hudson. I shan't be here very long."

Sherlock turned from the window with a theatrical billow of his dressing gown and stalked toward Mycroft. "It's all right, Mrs Hudson. I'm sure Mycroft doesn't have time for a slice of one of your delicious cakes. Do you?"

Molly saw Mycroft's lips twitch in annoyance before he managed to restore his usual neutral expression.

As soon as Mrs Hudson went downstairs, he turned on Sherlock with a grimace. "Really, little brother, what possible purpose was served with you showing up at the Club covered in . . . excrement? You were fully aware that I wasn't there before you walked through the front door."

"I was, yes." Sherlock looked rather gleeful at his admission. John cursed softly. "Still, it was one of the quickest ways to draw your attention."

"You barged into the Club, stinking to high heaven, and announced to all and sundry that you were looking for me! I'm told you left a stench in your wake, and that the bill to have the odious aroma cleaned from the carpets will be added to my Club dues." From his tone and expression, Mycroft was mildly put out.

"Oh, did I wipe my shoes clean on that pretty rug?" And there went Sherlock, pushing his brother's buttons again. 

"It is an antique, worth more than you manage to make in a year playing at being a detective."

Molly rolled her eyes. Even she knew that Sherlock didn't care about earning money, he did his work for the challenge, not the profits.

"Oops," Sherlock mocked, popping the 'P' tauntingly.

John groaned. "All right, children. Let's not make me call your mother."

Both Holmes boys took a moment to compose themselves, then Mycroft cleared his throat and asked what was so urgent that they couldn't have taken the time to bathe before looking for him.

"I found your spy." Sherlock moved to stand next to his chair. Molly made to get up so that he could take the seat, but he put his hand on her shoulder and silently urged her to stay. "Barrett's spy."

Mycroft straightened his spine even more, which Molly hadn't thought possible, and suddenly looked interested.

"Was it the assistant?" asked Molly.

Everyone but Sherlock looked at her in surprise. Mycroft gave Sherlock a narrow-eyed glare, which Sherlock met with a smug grin. "No. Two more guesses." 

"Husband?"

"Wrong again." 

Mycroft impatiently grumbled Sherlock's name. Sherlock waved him off and kept his attention on Molly. John started to say something, and Mary put her hand on his arm and told him to hush.

"Well, it can't be the mistress or you wouldn't have taken this long to figure it out," Molly thought aloud. She looked up to find Sherlock arching an eyebrow at her. He seemed pleased, and a little amused, with her deductive reasoning.

She hated to disappoint him, but that was as far as she got. Molly shrugged apologetically and threw out a guess. "The stable boy?"

"Stable boy?" barked John, visibly confused. "Where did a stable boy come from?"

"Of course there's a stable boy," Mary piped up, giving a conspiratorial nod and wink to Molly. "You said they have a stable, so there must be a handsome stable boy. A tall, muscular, sweaty stable boy who is obviously having an affair with the mistress of the house."

Molly was hard pressed not to laugh at the expression of disgust on Mycroft's face.

"There was an affair, yes." Sherlock smirked at Mary's explanation. "But not with the _stable boy_ ; who is--in fact--fifty years old, a former champion jockey and therefore on the shorter side, and a woman."

With an obviously fake pout Mary slumped back against the chair. "I really thought we had it, Molly."

Mycroft loudly cleared his throat. "If you could stop playing around and move things along, Sherlock? The car is double parked out front."

Annoyed at having his dramatic reveal interrupted, Sherlock sat on the arm of his chair and sneered at his brother. "Please give my apologies to . . . Anthea, is it? I always have difficulty remembering that, but then Greek has never been my strong suit."

Molly might have missed the way Mycroft blushed ever so slightly if she hadn't whipped her head around to watch him as soon as Sherlock mentioned Anthea's name.

To add more fuel to the fire, Sherlock taunted his brother once more. "If I had realized she was waiting in the car, I would have suggested you invite her to join us. It's not too late. I'm sure Mrs Hudson would be delighted to have a chance to feed us all up. Except for those of us who need to watch our weight, of course."

"Christ," John muttered under his breath as he covered his face with both hands.

Mycroft fussed with his brolly for a moment, then pierced Sherlock with a look that promised retribution at a later date. "I'm sure she'll be fine until we've finished our business. Assuming you are planning to get to the point?"

"You said there was an affair?" Mary prompted before someone ended up getting stabbed with an umbrella. Molly mouthed 'Thank you' in the other woman's direction.

Even though he seemed reluctant, Sherlock allowed himself to be distracted from sniping at his brother. "Mr and Mrs Barrett have an adult son named Hollis, who takes after his father's side of the family in appearance. So much so that one might say he is the spitting image of Mr Barrett's late brother, who died in a yachting accident just a few months before dear Hollis was born."

"No," Molly whispered, thoroughly scandalized.

"Yes," Sherlock replied in a similar tone.

Mycroft gestured that Sherlock should get on with it. 

"Someone found out that Hollis was fathered by the wrong Mr Barrett and began blackmailing your colleague. No one bugged her office. She's been slipping information to her blackmailer through various intermediaries on and off for a year. When people started to get suspicious, she fabricated the missing statuette story. Mrs Barrett is your mole."

"I was afraid that might have been the case. I admit, I had hoped you would have uncovered a different culprit. Veronica and I have been colleagues for many years." Mycroft's shoulders slumped for a moment, then he was back to his normal stick-up-the-arse self. " _C'est la vie_."

She could feel Sherlock tense beside her. Molly suspected he was annoyed that he'd been sent off on a puzzle Mycroft already had the solution to. Sherlock did hate being an errand boy for his brother. 

"Do you know who she's been funnelling information to?" Sherlock asked.

"I had a suspicion." Mycroft cleared his throat and looked directly over Molly's head. "But that lead has run into a dead-end as information continued to be leaked even after . . ." 

Sherlock paled and blinked several times. Mary and John shared a weighted look and then glanced away from each other, both making a point to avoid eye contact with Molly.

It was apparent that everyone in the room knew exactly who or what Mycroft was talking about. Everyone but her. And that was more than a little annoying. "Should I leave the room so all of you can discuss this, whatever it is, freely? I could go downstairs and have some tea and biscuits with Mrs Hudson, if that would help."

"Don't be absurd, Molly," Sherlock bit out.

At the same time Mycroft very politely told her, "How considerate of you, but we're done here."

The brothers exchanged an only marginally belligerent look, then Mycroft hooked his brolly handle over his arm and turned to leave.

Sherlock called out, "Oh, brother dear, be useful and drop those bags off at a dry cleaner on your way out, won't you? It would save Mrs Hudson the trouble."

As Molly fully expected him to, Mycroft pointedly ignored Sherlock and continued down the stairs.

John rubbed his hands together and nodded his head a few times, breaking the strange tension in the room. "Right then. Tea and biscuits actually sound rather good, now that you mention it, Molly. Shall I ask Mrs Hudson to send something up?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Rather than bothering Mrs Hudson for afternoon tea, they decided to order take-away. John and Sherlock went to pick it up, thankfully taking their soiled clothing with them to drop off at a cleaner on the way. Mary stayed behind with Molly.

In her head, Molly compared the other woman to a guard dog. It was a little disconcerting, seeing this new side to her friend. She made a mental note to ask Sherlock what the hell was going on.

When Sherlock finished his meal and began to dig into Molly's dessert, John laughed and grinned at her. Obviously he remembered the long-winded rant she'd gone on that day John had cornered her about her feelings for Sherlock.

As soon as they were done eating John and Mary made their excuses and left. Molly suspected they were anxious to pick up their daughter.

Barely half an hour later Molly had settled onto the sofa to enjoy a book. She was trying to, anyway. Sherlock was pacing around the sitting room, stopping to check his email on every circuit. Every time she'd finally start to get involved in her book Sherlock would start grumbling and pull her attention right back out of it. 

She put up with it for as long as she could before shutting her book and tossing it on the coffee table. Molly tapped her hand against the sofa cushion next to her. "Sit. You're making me tired just watching you."

"I'm not in the mood to sit," he whined. "I'm bored. No good cases, nothing above a four. Half of my emails are about cheating spouses or missing jewellery. Dull."

Molly drew in a deep breath, held it to the count of five, then let it out again. "If you sit here." She patted the cushion again. "You'll be within touching distance."

"Why would I want to be . . . Oh." Sherlock blinked several times and then calmly stepped onto and over the coffee table to reach her side. He sat next to her. "Is this close enough?"

"It's a start." Molly grinned and shifted a little closer. "Are you always this worked up after a case is over?"

"Only if it was a big one. Something that took actual effort. There's all the build up, the excitement of everything clicking into place, and then it's over and . . . I'm at a loss." He lifted his arm so that she could slip under it. Molly gladly took advantage of the gesture and moulded herself against his side. "I'm usually either wired or exhausted to the point where I sleep for twelve hours straight. It's difficult for me to predict which it will be."

She nodded. Her hair brushed against his chin before she lifted her face to press a soft kiss against his jaw. "Wired this time, I take it?" Molly kissed him again. "You're very tense. Would you like me to rub your back? It might help you relax," she quietly offered.

Sherlock froze in place for a long moment. She thought he might have begun buffering and wondered if she should reach for her book. Finally, his head jerked in an emphatic nod. "How-how do you want me?"

Molly bit her tongue to keep from saying the first thing that popped into her head. _Naked, eager, and under me._

She cleared her throat and tried to sound as normal as possible. "Uhm. Well, why don't you take off your dressing gown and turn around."

He stood, shrugged the gown off his shoulders, and then tossed it on the floor. Sherlock eased onto the sofa. He drew one of his legs up underneath him so he could present his back to her.

Molly got up on her knees and put her hands on his shoulders. She used her thumbs to search out a few knots in the trapezius muscle group, and began to work at them. Sherlock groaned as a particularly large knot dissolved. She leaned down and moved his shirt collar out of the way so that she could leave a kiss at the nape of his neck.

"It might be better if you took your shirt off, too. You don't have to, if you'd rather not, but-"

Before she could finish the last sentence Sherlock was popping open the buttons on his shirt. It ended up on the floor next to his dressing gown.

This close, she could see faint traces of pale scar tissue criss-crossing his back. Those were new. Her fingers ghosted over the scars. It looked as if someone had beaten him with something that had repeatedly bit and cut into the skin.

Molly took a deep breath and willed herself not to be sick as she realized there was a very strong probability that was exactly what had happened. 

Sherlock remained still under her hand.

There were more scars; a few she was already familiar with, some she'd never seen before.

Just above his left hip was one left by a knife wound. It was older than many of the others, made when his back was still relatively unblemished. John had done the initial care and stitching. Molly believed that the cut would have healed nearly scar free if Sherlock hadn't reopened it chasing after a lead. Literally. He pulled the stitches open scaling a chain link fence.

John had been on a date, and Sherlock hadn't wanted to take the time to track him down before marching into the lab. She'd noticed how he was favouring his side, and only managed to convince him to let her take a look by withholding access to the lab equipment until he gave in. Her stitch work hadn't been as neat as John's, and it definitely left a scar, but it had done the job.

As if she'd passed some sort of test, Sherlock had started coming to her for quick patch ups when John was otherwise occupied (or mad at him) before the Fall. She hadn't had a reason to be this close to his naked back since he returned, and hadn't know about the new scars.

"It wasn't as bad as it looks."

She knew him well enough to recognize that he was lying, but she was willing to let it slide.

Her fingers feathered against his skin from his shoulders down to the waistband of his trousers. She felt him tremble in response. The hand he had rested on his thigh twitched, the fingers flexed as if he wanted to grab hold of something.

Molly turned her attention to the stiffness in his shoulders and neck. Her hands were small but strong. She was thankful for her knowledge of anatomy and musculature as the tension slowly began to melt from him.

Another knot unravelled under her fingers. Sherlock's head fell forward and he moaned her name. The sound was low and deep, and reverberated straight through her body to centre in her womb.

"Is that good?"

"God, yes. Don't stop." 

She smiled and continued to work on his back. 

Eventually there were no more knots or kinks to find, and Sherlock was practically boneless. Molly inched closer on her knees until she was pressed against his back. She slid her hands into his hair and let her nails lightly scratch against his scalp. Sherlock practically purred like a cat and arched his spine. His head dropped back to rest against her breasts. His eyes were closed, his lips barely parted.

The long line of his neck was temptation itself. Molly ached to slide around and sit on his lap, to nip at the cords of his throat, to lick the hollow of his suprasternal notch.

Her fingers traced along his jaw, enjoying the feeling of a hint of stubble.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Oh, Molly, when you look at me like that . . ."

She knew he could see her desire for him written across her face. She wanted to hear him say it, wanted to know exactly how he saw her in his own words. "Tell me. How do I look at you?"

"Like you want to devour me whole." He turned around, his chin tilted upward so that he could meet her kiss when she leaned down. As soon as their lips touched Sherlock wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto his lap. Molly eagerly helped, settling her legs on either side of his hips.

His chest was smooth and firm under her hands. He nipped at her lower lip, then soothed the bite with a long, slow pass of his tongue. Molly blindly sought out his nipples, smiling against his mouth when they turned into hard buds beneath her fingers.

"Turnabout is fair play," he growled against her neck as his hands grazed her sides on the way up to her breasts.

"I'm not complaining," Molly gasped when his thumbs brushed against her nipples, only to return to tease the sensitive flesh over and over again. It was a delicious torment, having him so close but unable to feel skin against skin. 

She sat back and scrambled to remove her jumper. The ever observant Sherlock caught on quickly and helped pull it over her head. As soon as her arms were free, he was pressing a desperate kiss to her lips. Both of them began to work on her blouse buttons, their hands meeting somewhere in the middle. It soon followed her jumper, landing on the floor near Sherlock's discarded clothing. The kisses grew frantic, scraping teeth and invading tongues. Molly reached behind herself and fumbled with the hooks on her bra. She groaned in frustration as Sherlock's mouth distracted her for the second time; wet, open mouthed kisses along her throat. Then the bra was loose, and a shimmy had both straps dropping off her shoulders.

"You're killing me," he growled. "Do it again."

She did as he asked, her bare breasts pressing against his equally bare chest for the first time. It was the most perfect thing she'd ever experienced. And it was completely overshadowed seconds later when his hands returned to her breasts and the tips of his lightly calloused fingers caressed her naked skin.

Molly ducked her head and kissed his shoulder, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. One thought ran through her mind. _Mine!_

Not that anyone else was likely to see it, but she would know her mark was there.

He lightly pinched her nipple and Molly bit down. She would have apologized for hurting him but Sherlock thrust upward, grinding his erection against her centre, before she had a chance to utter a word. 

She whimpered, unable to articulate just how amazingly good that felt. Her hips rolled forward in search of that electric contact once more. 

Molly raised her head, and the expression on Sherlock's face made her breath catch. He was looking at her as if she were the most precious thing in his world. His gaze darted from her face to her breasts to her hair and back again. The way he said her name was weighted with so much desire and need that Molly knew there was no chance of denying them what they both wanted a moment longer.

Seemingly in awe of what he saw, Sherlock breathed out, "You are a goddess."

She kissed him one more time and then leaned back. He groaned in disappointment and reluctantly lowered his hands from her breasts. She realized he must have thought she was calling a halt to everything.

Molly reached between them and started to tug at his belt, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration. Sherlock's eyes widened and he dropped his hand to cover hers. "I thought . . .?"

Her hands stilled. This moment wasn't solely about her wants and needs, she wasn't the only one who had wanted to wait. "How did you say it? I think it's time to take matters in hand." Not the most seductive way she could have phrased it, but she hoped she got her meaning across.

Sherlock's face went completely blank. Perhaps she had misread the situation? John's room was still empty, toxic experiments notwithstanding. Surely Sherlock would understand if she locked herself away for a night so she could die of embarrassment in solitude.

"Unless, would you rather wait?" she hesitantly asked.

He blinked and looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Fuck no. No more waiting. Now." His voice threatened to break and he swallowed hard. "Now is good."

_Oh thank God._

Molly momentarily sagged in relief, then continued to work at his belt. Sherlock tried to help and their hands tangled. She slapped him away, then kissed him to make up for the slight sting. He cupped her head between his hands and held her in place as he took her mouth over and over. 

Once the belt was open, she reached for the snap of his trousers. Lowering the zip was a careful process, he was hard and straining against the trouser placket and she didn't want to injure him. Molly slid her hand under the waistband of his boxers and Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose. 

She tried to ease away from him, but he held on to her and didn't want to let her go. She finally managed to gasp, "Down." He froze for a split second then pushed the coffee table back with his feet to make room for her. Molly slipped off his lap and dropped to the floor.

"You-you don't have to-" Sherlock started to stammer.

Molly smiled up at him, rather coyly she thought, and put her hands on his knees. "I didn't say I was."

He wasn't able to mask the brief flash of disappointment that crossed his face. She took pity on him and ran her hands up his legs to his waist. She tugged on his trousers, silently urging him to raise his hips so she could slide the material down his legs. Once the trousers were off, she caressed his legs from his ankles back to his upper thighs. His calves and thighs were perfect. God, if his arse was as firm as she hoped, she was going to die a happy woman.

"Molly, just so there's no misunderstanding, are we going to have sex?" He flushed a deep red as he asked, and her heart started to melt.

"That's probably a safe bet, yes."

"I can-" He had to stop and take a deep breath. "If you're certain that you want to . . . have sex, I can go to the bathroom and deal with this." He gestured to his groin where his arousal was tenting his boxers. "Like we talked about."

His thighs quivered when she slipped her fingers under the legs of his boxers. "There's no reason to leave," she offered as seductively as she could.

Sherlock stared down at her sitting on her haunches at his feet. His hands clenched at his sides. "You want me to stay here and-"

She licked her lips. "Please."

He swallowed again. Her eyes tracked one of his hands as it slowly lifted from the sofa cushion and came to rest on his stomach. He began to ease his boxers lower and then stilled. "Are you going to participate?"

"Would you like me to?" 

Sherlock nodded.

She leaned forward to help him remove the last bit of his clothing, drawing the silky material down his legs and past his feet. When she turned back, he was already touching himself.

Her gaze was drawn to the movement of his hand, the way his fingers began to stroke up and down his erection. She glanced up at his face and found him watching her just as intently. Those pale eyes held her captive for a long moment. His foot nudged her, then he spread his legs wider in an obvious invitation. Molly bit her lip and moved between his knees. She put her hands back on his thighs and slid them upward until her fingers touched the dark curls surrounding his cock.

His lips parted, the tip of his tongue darted out moisten them. Her hands continued their upward journey until she was barely touching the base of his penis with her fingertips. On every stroke his hand would meet hers. His pace was slow and languid, pausing at the tip to pay extra attention to the head. Molly watched him, fascinated. Eventually curiosity won out, he had asked her to participate, after all. She waited until he was on a downward stroke and reached out to caress the head of his penis. Sherlock's hips jerked and a curse slipped past his lips. 

"Door," he growled, his voice ragged and deliciously deep.

Molly was too distracted by the feel and sight of him to comprehend what he wanted at first. "What?"

"Locked. Is the door locked?" 

His hand stopped its hypnotic movement, and Molly shook her head to clear it. The very last thing she wanted was another interruption from Mrs Hudson. "I'll check. Don't move." 

She double checked the lock to make sure nothing and no one would interrupt them this time. Molly turned back to the sofa to find Sherlock sprawled exactly where she'd left him. His legs were wide open, and his erection was still impressive enough to make her knees weak and her mouth go dry.

She reached for the button on her trousers.

He began to stroke himself again. As she lowered her zip, his other hand reached down to cup his balls. Molly whimpered at the sight. His eyes never strayed from her as she pushed her trousers and knickers off her hips at the same time. She had to hop on one leg to pull her shoes off when she realized she was still wearing them. She blushed, certain that she'd ruined what had been an erotic moment with her ungraceful display and forgetfulness. Sherlock bit back a low "Fuck" and she realized he was watching her small breasts bounce.

His hand began to move faster, his penis taking on a beautiful rosy flush. "I don't know how much longer-"

Molly dropped to her knees between his legs. She pulled his hand away from his scrotum, using both of hers in its place. Sherlock's head dropped back against the sofa. He began to softly pant her name in time with his strokes. His abdominal muscles quivered and rippled.

She continued to caress his balls, shifting the weight in her hands until they began to tighten and draw up. Molly reluctantly released him. "Stop."

Sherlock's head snapped up. He stared down at her in disbelief. "What? Why?" he whined, sounding desperate.

"Let me." 

"Jesus." He reached out to touch her shoulder and her hair, then very deliberately placed both of his hands flat on the sofa cushions next to him. "I'm yours."

Molly pulled at his hips urging him closer to the edge of the sofa. 

His cock was proportionate to his build; long and eager, but not overly thick. He was hot in her hand, smooth and firm when she gently squeezed. Sherlock made a noise at the back of his throat.

"Show me how you like it," she whispered.

Without a word he wrapped his hand around hers, urging her to hold him tighter. After a deep breath, he started to move both of their hands. Down to the base of his erection, up to the tip. He pulled the foreskin down to expose the head of his cock to their fingers, taking care to show her exactly where he wanted--needed--to be touched. A few more strokes and he let her go.

Even without seeing his face, she knew he was watching her. When she leaned forward and licked the head of his penis, he stopped breathing. She did it again, then slid her mouth over the head and part way down the shaft. 

It took her a moment to realize that his thigh and stomach muscles were drawn taut, and he still wasn't breathing. 

Molly released him from her mouth and looked up with concern. His cheeks were ruddy and his pupils were blown so wide she could barely see any of the gorgeous blue that she'd fallen for all those years ago. "Breathe, Sherlock."

He let go of a rush of air, the words "Don't stop, please, Molly, don't stop" slipped uncontrolled past his lips.

The thought--the very idea--that she had managed to bring the Great Sherlock Holmes to this point, this close to losing control . . . It was intoxicating.

She took him in her mouth again. He was velvet against her tongue, his flesh hot and slick with her saliva. His hands tangled in her hair, moving the locks out of her face so that he could watch what she was doing to him. He stroked and pet her, needing to touch her, to ground himself in the reality of the moment when the sensations began to get too intense.

Sherlock started to babble. He told her she was beautiful, that she was perfect, that she was everything, that he was close, so close, so very close.

He tensed and curled around her as he came. His voice broke as he called out her name over and over. Molly continued to lick and suck him through his orgasm. Sherlock's entire body shuddered in time with each pulse of his cock against her tongue.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Sherlock was still breathing hard when she sat back on her heels. He had slouched against the sofa, practically boneless after his orgasm. His expression was soft and relaxed. Molly didn't think she'd ever seen him so . . . carefree.

She suspected that anyone short of Moriarty himself could walk in at that moment, and Sherlock wouldn't even bother opening his eyes before lazily telling them to bugger off.

Molly, unfortunately, wasn't feeling relaxed at all. Touching him, hearing him call her name repeatedly as he came, knowing that he'd needed her-- _Her!_ \--so much that he'd practically begged her to let him finish . . . She didn't think she'd ever been so aroused in her life.

She squirmed, pressing her thighs tighter together in the hope of finding some relief.

He finally began to stir. Sherlock opened his eyes and a lazy smile blossomed on his lips as he focused on her.

His upper thighs twitched under her touch. Sherlock took both of her hands in his and raised them to his mouth one at a time. He pressed an open mouthed kiss to the palm of one, then nipped at the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb on the other. Molly moaned and squirmed again.

It only took him a second to flick his gaze from her flushed face to her trembling legs and back. His head tilted to the side as he deduced her, not that her condition was that difficult to figure out. She was desperate for a shag (or a bloody fantastic orgasm at the very least).

That lovely voice of his spoke two words that were music to her ears and several other erogenous zones. "Your turn."

Sherlock had to help her stand as she felt a little shaky. He began to lead her toward his room, but Molly hesitated. 

"What about our clothes?" She gestured toward the haphazard pile near the sofa. "What will Mrs Hudson think?"

"She'll think it's about time. If we're lucky, she'll bake a celebratory cake. Possibly decorated with little fondant genitalia if she's already been at her evening 'herbal soothers' and feeling creative." He impatiently tugged on her hand. "Isn't there something else you'd rather be doing than worrying about Mrs Hudson's non-existent delicate sensibilities?"

He had a valid point. And, Molly was happy to confirm as he walked in front of her, an arse to die for. "I'll just pick up later, then."

"Much later," Sherlock agreed.

She froze as another thought occurred to her. 

Sherlock huffed and turned to face her. "What now?"

It probably wasn't the best time to bring it up, although ten minutes from now would be even worse. She blanched and looked extremely apologetic. "I wasn't expecting . . . I mean, I was hoping, obviously, when we decided I was going to be staying here, after the kissing and everything. But, well, I didn't actually expect this to happen, and I didn't bring anything."

He frowned and looked confused. She knew she was babbling again, but this was one of those important discussions couples needed to have before they had sex for the first time. "I haven't been, uhm, with anyone since Tom; but I am still on the pill because my cycle is a bitch. A pain, I mean. It's a pain. So we should be okay tonight, but even with the pill I don't usually . . . not without-"

"Molly," Sherlock softly interrupted her. He held a finger to her lips to stop the nervous stream of words that had been pouring out. "I've got condoms."

"You have?" she asked as soon as he removed his finger, her voice dangerously close to a squeak. "Why?"

"Because you weren't the only one who was hoping this would eventually happen. I didn't want to assume you were on birth control or that you would have taken precautions. Even if you were still on the pill, that didn't necessarily mean you would be comfortable having sex without a condom. The least I could do was take some responsibility for what might happen. For what I very much wanted to happen." 

Molly stared at him with a goofy grin for a long moment. "I have no idea why I find that so hot, but I really, really do."

She let him finish pulling her down the hall to his bedroom. Sherlock tugged her into his arms and kissed her. The feel of his body pressed against hers without a stitch of clothing to get in the way made her breath catch in her throat. He left her standing next to the bed as he switched on a floor lamp and pulled down the covers. Then he made a point of closing and locking the bedroom door.

Molly hadn't moved from where he'd left her. He didn't seem to care that he was walking around as naked as the day he was born, and it hadn't really bothered Molly that she'd been doing the same until she found herself awkwardly standing there. When he turned to look at her she had to fight the instinct to try to cover herself with her hands. They curled into fists at her sides.

"Have you changed your mind?" She had no doubt that if she said yes, he'd accept her decision.

She shook her head and forced her hands to unclench. Molly tried to give him a reassuring smile. The concerned way he was looking at her told her that she missed the mark. She felt like a complete idiot. This was something she'd wanted--dreamt of--for years, and now that it was about to happen she was overwhelmed by insecurities and nearly paralyzed with the fear that she was going to say or do something to screw it all up. Which was utterly absurd after what they'd just done in the sitting room. Wasn't it?

Sherlock studied her for a moment, then nodded once as if he'd made some sort of deduction. 

What did that mean? Did he figure out how nervous she was now that they were focusing on her rather than him? 

He looked as if he wanted her to do something. Was he waiting for her to make the first move? Should she kiss him? Crawl into bed? Should she suggest something? What if she did and he didn't like the idea? What if _he_ suggested something and she didn't like it? Oh, God, what if they had sex and it was disappointing rubbish? 

Molly bit her lip and tried not to appear as if she were having doubts.

"Am I correct in thinking that you are unsure of how we should proceed?"

He understood. Molly felt a wave of relief wash over her. She looked down at her feet and whispered, "Yes."

Sherlock tilted her chin back up so that he could see her face. "Would you like me to . . . lead the way? Just until you're comfortable again."

She nodded.

He released her chin and gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Get on the bed, Molly."

Five words. Five little words spoken in that belly clenching, bone melting voice, and her world shifted on its axis.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at him expectantly.

His smile turned into a seductive smirk. He tsked at her and playfully shook his head. "Not there. I want you stretched out so that I can observe every delectable detail of your body."

She eagerly scooted toward the middle of the bed. Sherlock gestured for her to lay back. Molly smiled as she did so, her earlier arousal beginning to return. 

He moved so that he could brush his fingers against her ankle. "Open for me, Molly. I thought I made it clear that I want to see all of you."

There was only a second's hesitation before she did as he asked. She shivered as the cool air of the flat hit the heated flesh between her legs.

She almost missed his whispered, "Beautiful."

Molly held out her arms, desperate to hold him again. He eased onto the bed and crawled to her, over her. The muscles in his arms and back rippled as he moved, remind her of a panther she'd once seen at the zoo. Watching him was one of the most erotic things she'd ever observed.

He lowered himself against her and they both groaned at the glorious contact. Sherlock looked into her eyes for a long moment and she could read his love for her in his warm gaze. "Molly. My beautiful Molly." 

He dipped his head and kissed her. She gasped against his mouth, and he slipped his tongue between her lips. Her hands moved down his back to his arse, and she pulled him into the vee of her thighs. When she scrapped her nails across his firm, delicious looking bum, he groaned and thrust against her. Her knees came up to cradle his hips, delighting in the feeling of him so close to where she needed him most. His scent surrounded her, reminded her of all those times she'd ached to be this close to him. 

She knew that no matter what the future held for them, she would never regret this moment. 

Sherlock began to slide down her body, pausing to pepper kisses and nips against her throat and collar bone on his way to her breasts. Her nipple pebbled under his teasing. When his mouth closed around the tip of her breast, Molly gasped. She nearly came up off the bed when he scraped his teeth against the hard bud. He pressed her down, using his weight to hold her in place as he touched and caressed, nipped and sucked.

Far too soon he left her breasts and licked his way from her sternum to her navel. Then he blew on the wet skin and her stomach muscles clenched in response. His curls brushed against her abdomen as he pressed a kiss just below her belly button. 

She wanted to touch those curls, tangle her fingers in them. Before she could act on the desire, Sherlock was pulling away from her. "Why?" escaped her lips, and she vaguely realized she sounded as needy as he had in the sitting room earlier.

He stood next to the bed and smirked down at her. She started to sit up, but he motioned for her to stay where she was. He leaned over to slide his hands up her legs to her waist, and then he forcefully pulled her to the edge of the bed. The action was unexpected; Molly yelped in surprise, then started to giggle.

The smirk returned. That, coupled with his bare chest and tousled hair, gave him a roguish air. Good Lord, he was without a doubt the sexiest man she'd ever met. He stepped between her legs and leaned down once more so that he could pluck at one of her nipples. Molly took her lower lip between her teeth and bit down hard to keep from calling out his name and earning another knowing look from Mrs Hudson in the morning. She reached out for him, but he ignored her silent entreaty. Instead he grabbed one of the pillows from the top of the bed and helped tuck it under her head. He answered her unspoken question with a devilish grin, "I want to make sure you can see everything I'm about to do to you."

Her breath caught in her throat when he sunk to his knees. He lifted one of her legs and pressed an open mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh. Molly's sigh turned into a gasp and her back arched off the bed when she felt the small sting of his teeth. He hooked both of her legs over his shoulders.

Was he going to . . .? "Oh God."

"Not quite, but I'll take it as a compliment." He brushed his palm against her curls, letting her adjust to his touch. Molly bit her lip to keep from telling him she was more than ready and could he bloody well hurry up? Sherlock parted her labia with one hand, and began to explore her with the other. One finger circled around her clit, almost but not quite touching it. Her hands dropped to her sides and pulled up handfuls of the blanket. She felt him dip a finger into her wetness, entering her just enough to make her crave more. He looked up at her face to make sure she was still watching him, and then slowly slid that finger into his mouth. His lips closed around the digit, cheeks hollowing as he sucked it clean. She didn't even try to stifle her whimper.

Sherlock lowered his head, keeping eye contact with her until the last possible moment, and then he flicked his tongue against her sensitive nub. Molly fought not to squirm as he licked her clit and down to her wet entrance. He varied his technique, using her gasps and moans to deduce where and how she liked his tongue. Desperate, unintelligible noises began to escape her lips. Her hips gently rocked against his mouth. 

"Sherlock, please," she begged, although she wasn't sure what, exactly, she was asking for.

There were long, sweeping strokes of his tongue that alternated with quick flutters against her clit. Then he inserted a finger, and her toes curled. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him tighter against her. The finger began to move in and out, and when she thought she couldn't stand anything more he added a second. With a bit of experimentation, he found the spot that nearly made her scream. Molly's head dropped back against the pillow as a wave of pleasure began to build inside. 

Sherlock flattened his tongue against her pearl and his fingers pulsed against her g-spot like a virtuoso with his violin. She was close. Just one more little push and she'd be there. Molly tried to tell him, but her words began to run together in a barely coherent jumble.

He wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked. Supernovas exploded behind her eyes. She nearly came off the bed as her orgasm ripped through her. Molly barely had the presence of mind to muffle her cries into her pillow. 

Her legs were still trembling when he lowered them to the floor. He stood up and stared down at her intently. His cheeks were flushed, his mouth and chin glistening with the evidence of her arousal. "Molly?"

"Yeah?" she sighed, sated and sleepy.

"I need you."

Molly leaned up on her elbows to see that he was fully erect. As she watched, his hand drifted down to stroke his cock. Her eyes widened in surprise. Realistically, she'd expected a longer refractory period. Hours, possibly even waiting until the morning, before they'd be able to have intercourse. "Already?" 

"Apparently so." His hand stilled and he frowned. "Is that a problem?"

"Oh God, no." Her earlier drowsiness was forgotten as he pulled open the drawer of his nightstand. She scooted back to the centre of the bed so that they would have plenty of room. The condom wrapper crinkled as he tossed it on the pillow next to her head. Sherlock joined her and ran his hand from her sweat dampened stomach to her breast. She leaned up to kiss him, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck to steady herself. He settled between her legs with a long, deep groan. Molly bit at his lower lip, and he urgently ground his hips against her centre. 

"Condom," he panted against her mouth, his hips snapped forward as if he couldn't control the need to move against her. She nodded and kissed him again, sucking his lower lip between her teeth. Sherlock let her for another long moment, then he practically begged, "Molly, we need the condom." 

He pulled away enough to open the wrapper, and she saw that his hands trembled slightly in his eagerness. Molly took it from him and helped sheath him. Touching him, hearing him bite back a moan when she wrapped her small hand around his cock, seeing him flushed and eager for her . . . It brought her arousal to a fever pitch all over again. She urged Sherlock over her and held him between her thighs. 

"I was going to kiss you, touch you," he gasped as his erection slid against her heat. "Tease you, drive you crazy a bit longer, but I'm don't think I can wait any longer."

"Don't. I need you, now. Please, Sherlock."

He reached down to guide himself into her. His eyes fluttered shut as he began to move; tentative, uneven strokes at first. Molly moaned and dug her fingers into his shoulders. As his confidence grew he quickly found his rhythm. She rolled her hips to meet him, urging him deeper. He opened his eyes and arched his spine so that he could reach her mouth again.

Molly pulled her knees higher around his waist and dug her heels into his arse. Her nails raked down his back. Sherlock loudly called out her name and thrust harder. "If you do that again, I'm not going to last," he panted.

She laughed as she did it again, the sound was breathless and fully of filthy promises. His rhythm faltered. "Fuck, I can't-can't . . . Touch yourself. I need to feel you . . . While I'm inside," he gasped as he pressed his forehead against hers.

He was going to come undone and she desperately wanted to go with him. With every movement against her clit, her fingers brushed against his cock. She could see that he was trying to hold on to his control long enough for her to come first; his eyes were tightly closed and his arms were beginning to shake. Suddenly, without warning, the tension that had been slowly building inside of her burst. Sherlock's eyes snapped open as she clenched around him. He growled her name and surged against her, continuing to thrust through her orgasm. And then he was coming, and he was beautiful. 

Sherlock nearly collapsed on her as his arms finally gave out, the brunt of his weight landing on his elbows. They both lay there, waiting to catch their breath and for their racing hearts to slow.

It took a moment for his gaze to sharpen. He carefully pulled out and rolled to the side. "I'll be right back. Do not move."

She watched him duck into the bathroom, marvelling again at that perfect arse. He returned a minute later, having disposed of the condom. As he'd requested, she hadn't moved. He sat on the bed and studied her. Molly stared back at him, her body a lovely mix of aches and pleasurable aftershocks. 

"I can't stop looking at you." Sherlock reached out and wrapped a lock of her hair around his fingers.

She knew she must have looked a fright. Her hair was a mess, lips swollen, her face was undoubtedly flushed and blotchy. Molly tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.

He leaned down to kiss her once, very gently. "Those wide eyes. The long, beautiful hair that just begs for me to tangle my hands in it. And your lips." He dragged his thumb across them, tugging slightly at the lower one. "I was right. You are a goddess." The sheer reverence in his voice made her tremble. 

Molly whispered, "I love you."

"I know." She pursed her lips and smacked him in the arm. "Which works in my favour, because I love you, too. More than I ever thought possible."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Her first day back to work was relatively uneventful; a pair of autopsies and a backlog of paperwork that her temporary replacement hadn't managed to finish. Soter had apparently ditched the Mercedes as the taxi made an appearance every time she stepped foot outside 221B or Barts. He'd even escorted her back to her flat so she could pick up more clothes and some other things to make her extended stay at Sherlock's a bit more comfortable.

She was going to miss Soter when all of this craziness with Chapman was over. Perhaps Mycroft would pass along her well wishes every once in awhile. Then again, she'd probably have better luck asking Anthea.

Soter walked her to the door and waited as she unlocked it. "Have a good evening, ma'am." He tipped his non-existent hat and stood there until she was safely inside. 

The door to the flat was open, so Molly tucked her keys into her bag as she finished climbing the stairs. There had been no formal gifting of the keys from Sherlock. They'd simply appeared on her key ring one morning. When she'd tried to ask him about it, he'd changed the subject and distracted her with a kiss and questions about the paper she was writing. 

She wasn't surprised to see that Sherlock was home, or that John was with him. Sherlock was sitting in front of his laptop and John was leaning over him, one hand on the desk as he looked over the consulting detective's shoulder. If she'd ever been asked to imagine the two of them working together in the flat, this was the sort of thing she would have pictured. Perhaps with their roles switched; John typing away at his blog and Sherlock offering sarcastic quips over his shoulder.

John looked up as Molly dumped her bag next to the door. "Hello, Molly."

She warmly greeted them both and headed toward the kitchen. Sherlock didn't look up or even acknowledge her presence in anyway, intent on whatever he was reading. John frowned and looked as if he wanted to say something, but Molly waved him off with a smile that made it clear she wasn't bothered by the snub. 

She'd known Sherlock for years and had grown very familiar with his rude idiosyncrasies and extreme focus. Just because they were in a relationship, she didn't expect that he was going to suddenly change his personality to dote on her. It was a bit of a relief, actually. He wouldn't seem normal if he was hanging on her every word and casting doe eyes in her direction every time she entered the room. It would be too much like his saccharinely sweet, fake relationship with Janine.

"I'm going to make some tea. Would you like a cup, John?" She started to fill the kettle.

"That would be great." He looked back to Sherlock's laptop and pointed at something on the screen. "That can't be right, the breaks are inconsistent with a fall from a second floor." 

Sherlock considered it for a moment. "Good eye. I knew that idiot at the morgue wasn't paying attention. Thank God Molly is back at Barts."

She smiled at the implied complement and leaned back against the kitchen counter as she waited for the kettle to boil. 

She'd always known that Sherlock was good at what he did; but once he'd started working with John, he'd become something more and it really was lovely to witness it firsthand. 

The kettle began to whistle and startled Molly out of her thoughts. She gathered the cups and prepared a tray. A few minutes later she carried it into the sitting room and set it on the desk. She passed a cup to John and set another next to the laptop within Sherlock's reach. Molly picked up the third cup and let the heat warm her hands, inhaling the fragrant steam.

John straightened and politely thanked her, stressing her name in an effort to remind his friend to do the same. Sherlock ignored him.

Along with the tea, Molly had brought a small plate of her favourite chocolate biscuits. She ate one while John filled her in on the case they were working on. "The witness says Miss Green fell from the second floor balcony and snapped her neck on impact. But the autopsy seems to indicate something different."

"May I see?" 

John stepped out of the way so that she could move into his spot. She frowned as she looked at the digital copy of the post-mortem. "Do I even want to know how you got a copy of this?"

"Probably not," Sherlock answered as he leaned back in his chair and absentmindedly reached for his teacup. He took a sip and hummed appreciatively. 

John rolled his eyes. "Greg emailed it. He thought there was something odd about the witness' statement. The one who saw her fall. Brother-in-law, his wife stands to inherit a large chunk of money now that her sister is dead."

Molly nodded and scanned through the report to find the pertinent bits. She'd just found what she'd been looking for when Sherlock reached out to drag the biscuit plate out of John's reach. "Nope. Not for you."

"What?" John froze with his hand hovering over the space where the plate had been.

"The biscuits. Those are Molly's. Not for you."

She had to hide her grin behind her cup until she could control her expression. "Sherlock, John can have one if he wants."

The consulting detective shook his head and pulled the plate even further from his friend. "If he wants a biscuit, there are some plain ones in the cupboard. I'm sure he can find them. And if he can't, he can go bother Mrs Hudson for some. These are yours. I had to deal with that moron of a Tesco's delivery boy myself to get them for you."

"But you ate some of them the other night?" Molly reminded him.

The self-satisfied smirk on his face told her he was about to say something that would probably embarrass the hell out of her. "Only because we were getting ready for bed and I know how much you enjoy the flavour."

John sputtered and nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. Molly's cheeks burned. 

Sherlock--the arse--continued to look pleased with himself. "You know, I'm beginning to grow rather fond of it myself." 

Molly groaned and hung her head, praying for Greg to pop in with a nice distracting murder that would make John forget what he'd just heard. "Oh God."

By the time she looked up again, John had already pulled out his phone. "Mary is going to love this."

She did the only thing she could, Molly pointed at the document on the laptop screen. "Is it possible that her neck might have been broken prior to the fall?"

Sherlock gave her a knowing look that told her he knew what she was trying to do, but he went along with her diversion anyway. "I'd considered it. If you agree with John's assessment of her other injuries, then I believe her death was no accident. We have a killer on our hands."

"And you already know who," John muttered as he finished texting Mary.

"And I already know who. Oh, shut up, John."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

The men had left to meet up with Greg hours earlier, and Molly contemplated finishing one more chapter in her book before going to bed early. She'd changed into her pyjamas and settled into John's chair for a little light reading after a long day at Barts.

She tensed when the stairs creaked, and turned to peer over the back of the chair to see who was coming. Sherlock stormed through the door, frowning, and immediately threw himself into his chair. 

"How did the case go?" He looked upset. Not a good sign. "Was it the brother-in-law?"

Sherlock's eyes met hers, and she suspected he hadn't even realized she was in the room until she'd spoken. "What? Yes, the brother-in-law. He broke down and confessed to Gavin within minutes of our arrival at his home." 

So if it wasn't the case that was bothering him, then what was it? She didn't think it was anything she had done. A few months ago she might have jumped to that conclusion, but things were different now. Her confidence in their relationship had grown considerably, especially after Sherlock told her he loved her. 

She debated whether to ask him or let him sort things out on his own. "Is something wrong?"

He tapped his fingers against the arms of his chair and grimaced. "Janine. She should have been back from her business trip last night, but I haven't heard a thing from her all day." He reached for his laptop and flipped it open. "Something's not right. We agreed she'd check in daily until we figured out how to deal with Chapman. She's missing."

Molly felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn't given Janine more than a passing thought in days. "What happened?"

"Janine is missing," Sherlock snapped. "How are you unable to understand such a simple concept? I expect better of you, Molly. That's the sort of inane question Anderson would ask."

_Oh, wow._ She bit her lip to keep from snapping back or, even worse, apologizing. Molly knew she wasn't a meek little mouse anymore; and she wasn't going to let Sherlock reduce her to that behaviour again, just because he was in a bad mood. She opened her book and forced herself to stare at the pages, ignoring him. If he was going to act like a child, then she was going to treat him like one. 

His fingers danced across the keyboard for several ticks of the clock before they slowed to a stop. She lifted her head to find him staring at her over the top of his laptop screen. His eyes were wide and panic stricken.

"I-that-I didn't mean to-that was-" Sherlock stammered so much that she started to feel a tiny bit bad for him, but she wasn't about to let him off the hook completely.

Molly raised her hand to cut him off. "That was something that we will discuss in-depth later. After you've figured out what is going on with Janine, and how to find her if she is--in fact--missing."

He nodded once and turned back to his laptop for a moment. She didn't even have a chance to find where she'd left off in her book before Sherlock quietly lowered the screen. "I can't. I need to know how to fix it," he implored her. "Tell me what to do." 

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighed. "Look, I am aware that in comparison to you, I'm an idiot-"

He rushed to interrupted her, "Almost everyone is." As if that made things better.

She growled his name in warning. 

"But you aren't."

"I'm sorry, what?" That was unexpected. Sherlock wasn't known for tossing out compliments about someone else's intelligence. He was notorious for doing exactly the opposite. On the extremely rare occasions when he had done the unthinkable, the compliments were always grudgingly given.

"You're not at my level, very few people are. And you are nowhere near Mycroft, I barely am. But you are not an idiot, Molly, far from it. Don't ever say that again." He almost sounded angry with her, and then he seemed to remember that she was the one who had a reason to be annoyed with him. "What I said was . . ." He paused as if searching for the right word.

"Uncalled for?" Molly prompted. "Rude?"

Sherlock grimaced and nodded, looking chastised and more than a little lost. "Probably both. We've just found this thing between us, I don't want to you lose you already."

Molly shook her head. "You're not going to lose me because you misspoke one time. If you were going to chase me away just by being you, it would have happened years ago. But that does not give you free rein to say whatever horrible thing pops into your head with me. Take a moment to think before you speak. Don't belittle me, and we'll figure the rest out as we go."

He continued to watch her, as if unsure of whether or not she was telling the truth.

"I promise. You'll have to try harder than that to make me leave." His shoulders started to lose their tension at her words. "As long as we love each other, then you're stuck with me, Sherlock."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, then Sherlock gave her a hopeful, boyish smile. Molly nodded in return and pointed at his laptop. "Janine."

She watched him work, once again amazed at how completely he could shut the rest of the world out to get lost in his thoughts. 

From the first moment she'd seriously considered what it would be like to be involved with Sherlock (as a real couple, not just fantasies about shagging him silly), she'd always known there would have to be a few allowances made for him that weren't required for the other men she had dated. She understood that he had a tendency to focus to the point of obsession when he had an interesting case, and that wasn't something she had any intention of trying to change. Molly was under no illusion that he would let her even if she'd wanted to. She fully expected that there would be times when he would tell her to be quiet or ask her to leave so he could concentrate on his work; but he would have to learn how to temper that razor sharp tongue if they were going to be equals in their relationship. And Molly refused to settle for anything less.

Now, however, was not the time to get into all of that. Not if Janine really had gone missing.

She closed her book and prepared to stand. "Is there anything I can do to help before I leave?"

Sherlock's head jerked up. "Leave? Why are you leaving?" 

"Because you're working." She stood and smiled down at him indulgently. 

He seemed utterly confused by the concept. "Yes, but why are _you_ leaving?"

"To give you space, so you can think. So you can figure out what's going on with Janine." It seemed like a reasonable suggestion to her. She wasn't sure why he was protesting.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and his nose crinkled. "Why would I need space? You aren't a distraction. You're so quiet while you read, I hardly remember you're there sometimes."

_Well, that was a boost to the self esteem, wasn't it?_ She was pretty sure that was meant to be a compliment. Probably.

"You know how it helps me to bounce ideas off of someone. You're a much better option than Billy." Wonderful. She beat out the skull on the mantel. He kept talking. "Perhaps not as good as John, but you're considerably more pleasing to the eye, and you do offer the occasional burst of insight that has been quite helpful in the past."

"Thank you." It _had_ been a compliment in Sherlock speak. 

"You're welcome." 

"So, is there anything I can do?" she offered again.

He frowned as if he couldn't believe they were still discussing it. "Stay."

"Just . . . stay?" There was still that bit of uncertainty that made her need to hear him say it one more time. She knew that he valued her, but there was still the odd moments of fear that it was all a dream. 

Sherlock nodded and gestured toward John's chair. "Just stay."

Molly sat and made herself comfortable, curling her legs under her. "Done."

She had no idea how long she'd been reading. Every once in awhile she would look up to check on him. At some point he'd closed the laptop and tucked it into the space next to him in the chair. The last time she'd looked his legs were drawn up against his chest, his feet bare, and he'd steepled his fingers into his thinking pose. 

"It makes no sense," Sherlock's voice softly broke into the comfortable silence. He didn't sound as if he wanted a response, so Molly didn't bother offering one. She turned the page, a small part of her registering what he was saying while the rest concentrated on her book. "Chapman intimidates his victims. Mental abuse. Physical abuse. Limited to sexual situations in almost all cases. Other than the attack at your flat, his pattern hasn't changed. The abduction attempt with you was . . . an aberration. As far as he was aware you didn't fit his profile, yet he came after you anyway. What caused him to leave his comfort zone? Molly?"

She looked up at the sound of her name. "Pardon?"

"Why would he switch to kidnapping women? That's not what he enjoys, it's not subtle enough. It's not part of his game."

"I, uhm, never really paid that much attention in my psychology class at uni," Molly admitted, looking more than a little sheepish. "Are you, well, are you sure it was him?"

Sherlock shifted until he could drape both legs over one of the chair arms. "The probabilities that she would go missing on her own or that a stranger would abduct her just twenty-four hours after returning to London are too small to be a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy. Who else would it be?"

"Moriarty?" She threw out the only name she could think of.

"Jim Moriarty is dead," he scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "I saw him blow his brains out myself."

"I know he's dead, I did the post mortem," Molly scoffed right back. She looked away, focusing on the odd shadow box on mantel, the one with the beetles and the bat. "Someone needed to verify that his wound was self-inflicted, and your brother asked that I be involved. There were . . . rumours. Rumours that you murdered an innocent actor before jumping to your death. I couldn't let people think that about you." Moriarty had been a criminal mastermind and all around arse, but she had been in a relationship with him (short-lived and bittersweet as it was). She wouldn't have even done the autopsy if Mycroft hadn't insisted. 

Sherlock's expression softened. "I'm sorry." He looked as if he meant it.

"I didn't mean Moriarty took her," she clarified. "I meant whomever is pretending to be Moriarty. Her name has been linked to yours in the papers quite a bit. Perhaps she was taken to get back at you." 

He waved his hand dismissively. "Not a possibility."

"Why not?" She thought it was a valid theory.

"Because there is no criminal pretending to be Moriarty. That was Mycroft throwing up a diversion to have my exile orders revoked. The sentimental fool didn't want me sent on a mission that would most certainly end in my death."

The sound of her book dropping to the floor was loud in the deathly silent room. Sherlock paled and swung his legs down so he could face her completely.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" It was difficult to force the words out. It felt as if there was something in her throat, a large, painful lump threatening to cut off her air supply at any moment.

"You should probably forget all of that." He grimaced and straightened his shirt cuffs, then looked around the room at anything but her. "I'm . . . not sure if it would fall under your clearance. Regardless, I wouldn't bring it up in conversation with Mycroft. He thinks I don't know, even though it is utterly obvious to anyone who might bother to think about it."

"You were going to be exiled? What the hell did you do, Sherlock?" She didn't give him a chance to answer, speaking over him as soon as he opened his mouth. Well, not speaking so much as yelling. Or perhaps screeching might have been a more accurate term, as she was aware that her voice was getting higher and higher with each question. "You were being sent off to die? And you didn't tell me?"

"I said goodbye!" he shouted in return. He took a deep breath repeated himself in a much calmer tone. "I said goodbye. That day at the lab."

Molly tried to understand what she was hearing. "You came to my lab and said goodbye, and somehow I was supposed to know that meant you were never coming back and you knew--You knew!--you were going to die?"

"Of course you weren't supposed to know. No one was supposed to know any of that. Mary suspected at least part of it, because Mary is . . . But I couldn't tell anyone." His eyes seemed to silently plead with her to understand. "Jesus, Molly, do you have any idea how far I had to push to get permission to even see you one last time? They wanted me out of the country and they wanted it quick. Mycroft had to pull strings left and right to grant me an extra day to get some things in order. That it gave him additional time to arrange his little diversion was neither here nor there."

It was almost too much to take in. She'd been so close to losing him forever and she hadn't even realized it. "That's why there was someone waiting outside the morgue, wasn't it? You were being watched."

"Guarded. There were some . . . concerns that I was going to run."

She snorted in disbelief. "Then they, who ever 'they' are, don't know you very well."

He shrugged. "I might have, if I thought there would have been any chance of it ending in anything other than a public trial and an official death sentence." 

_A death sentence? What did he do?_

"I couldn't have put my family or John through that. Not after everything they'd gone through when the world thought I was a crime orchestrating fake. I did kill a very important man in cold blood in front of a dozen or more witnesses, there was no way I'd be able to get away without facing some consequences. But I knew that before I pulled the trigger. The exile seemed to be the best choice I had."

The blood drained from her face and Molly felt lightheaded. She was fully aware that Sherlock had done some horrible things in the course of his work. She'd known there was a chance that he might have contributed to the death of some of Moriarty's associates while he was gone those two years, but she had never heard him directly admit to killing someone before. 

The entire time she tried to sort through her thoughts, Sherlock observed her. He didn't move, didn't change position, barely even breathed. He just watched her, silently waiting for her to react. It was maddening.

"Did I know him?" Why that mattered, she hadn't a clue; but something in her needed to know.

"Personally? Doubtful." His voice wasn't cold, exactly, just devoid of the warmth she'd grown accustomed to over the last few days. He was holding himself back. Shutting himself away. Trying to protect himself from the rejection he was expecting.

"Did I know of him?"

"It's possible, although unlikely, that you had heard of him prior to the reports of his mysterious demise. Charles Magnussen, prominent international businessman, found shot dead in his home after an apparent burglary gone wrong. There had been a small mention of him being brought before a parliamentary committee to answer some queries, but that story got buried rather quickly. It would have been very easy to miss."

It was as if a spotlight had been cast at one of Sherlock's evidence walls, highlighting transcripts of conversations she'd had over the last few months. Sherlock had dated Janine for a case, something that involved her employer. The boss that had been killed in a burglary around Christmas. Anthea had mentioned his name in the car the day of the Barrett party, said his name was . . . _Oh God, Sherlock._

"You killed Janine's boss." Molly tried not to sound as horrified as she felt.

He nodded without a single word of explanation. 

"Is that why, uhm, is that why you proposed to her? To get close enough to-to shoot him?"

He didn't even flinch, as if he'd been expecting the question. "No. I needed access to his office. The proposal seemed the most expedient option." She believed him. It was such a typical 'Sherlock the Arsehole' thing to do that there was no doubt in her mind that he was telling the truth.

Molly bit her lip as she continued to piece things together. "Was that what Mycroft was talking about, when he said the lead had hit a dead-end?"

Sherlock nodded again.

"Jesus." Her expression turned stormy, and she glared at the horrible, innocent bat again. "I hope to God that wasn't Mycroft attempting to make a morbid pun."

A sharp bark of laughter had her looking at Sherlock once more. He quickly sobered when he realized Molly hadn't been making a joke.

She bent down and carefully picked up her book, setting it on the small table next to the chair. Once that was done, she took a deep breath and asked a question that probably said a lot more about her than Sherlock. "Did he deserve it?"

Regardless of his answer, was she really going to act like there was any reasonable excuse to kill a man? 

Molly thought about all the bodies that had come through her morgue. All the innocent men and women who had lost their lives at the hands of another. She thought about Chapman and how badly things could have gone if Jacob hadn't burst into the hall to defend her. She thought about what she would be willing to do to save Sherlock. And just like that, she had her answer.

She owed it to him to give him a chance to explain, to wait until she knew why he'd done it before deciding how to proceed.

"It's not up to me to judge whether or not a man should live or die. That has been made extremely clear to me." He studied her face, looking for something. Probably a hint to her thoughts or feelings at the moment. She kept her expression as blank as possible, not wanting to get his hopes up in case she couldn't deal with it.

"Were you in danger?" Not that she wanted him to be, but self defence would go a long way toward making all of this easier to accept.

Sherlock remained unnaturally still, as if he knew how desperately she was searching for something to make everything better and nothing he would say would fix it. "No. If he'd lived I would have been in a great deal of trouble, but I wasn't in any real danger."

Molly appreciated his honesty. He could have lied to her, made up some story to sooth her conscience; but he told the truth knowing full well it might drive her away.

"Someone else? Was he going to hurt someone else?"

"Yes."

Her eyes closed and she took a deep breath, then opened them to meet his anxious gaze. "Someone you care about, one of the people on your list?"

"More than one." Was she mistaken or was some of the tension beginning to melt away from his shoulders? Did he deduce her before she'd even admitted she'd made a decision herself?

"In your opinion, at the moment that you . . . did it, did he need to die?"

Sherlock's nod was sharp and confident, not a hint of doubt on his face. "Yes."

Molly stood up and reached for his shoulder, squeezing it briefly. "That's all I need to hear." She moved toward the kitchen, aware that her hands were shaking. Even without turning around she knew he was watching her, could practically feel his gaze on her back. She grabbed the kitchen counter and lowered her head for a moment, before reaching for the kettle. "If I'm going to stay up much later, I'm definitely going to need caffeine. Coffee?"

"That's it? Just an offer of coffee. I admitted I murdered a man in cold blood and you're fine with that?"

What the hell else did he want from her? Did he want her to run away? Was he trying to scare her off? And she really, really wished he'd stop saying that. 

In cold blood. 

Those three words were making her stomach rebel.

She finished filling the kettle with water from the tap and slammed it down on the cook-top, shooting him a disgruntled look in the process. "I didn't say I was fine with it. I may never be _fine_ with it. I said that's all I needed to hear." She flicked on the burner and pulled one of the chairs away from the table so she could sit while she waited for it to boil. "I trust you, Sherlock. I trust you with my life. And if you felt you honestly had no other choice-"

"Molly," he interrupted her. "You need to know the truth, before you . . . I had other choices. I've been able to think of dozens since that day, things I could have done with more preparation. If I'd just understood Magnussen sooner. If I hadn't been so certain that I'd be able to outwit him. But none of them would have protected the people I cared about, not with the limited time and resources I had to work with at that moment. I made a split second decision and a man is dead because I shot him, point blank."

"Then you did what you had to do." 

"How can you say that?" She'd never seen Sherlock look so puzzled. If she'd been closer, she might have tried to physically comfort him. 

"Because I can't say with one hundred percent certainty that I wouldn't have made the same decision to protect someone I loved." _You._

He looked as if he wanted to protest, but Molly shook her head. "I'm sure John and Mary are very grateful for the sacrifice you were prepared to make."

He went very still other than a tell-tale tic at the corner of his lips. "Who said anything about John and Mary?"

"Your list isn't very long, Sherlock." And she'd always been able to read him better than he thought. "If you were protecting your brother, he wouldn't have needed to find a way to keep you in the country. They would have been threatening you with a medal or a knighthood instead. Mycroft would move heaven and earth to make sure your parents were safe, so it couldn't have reached the exile stage for them, either. That leaves a very small number of people." She thought for a moment and smiled. "I suppose it could have all been for Mrs Hudson and Greg, but I figured it would be a safe bet to go with John and Mary."

The way his gaze softened as he studied her made ache to tell him everything was all right. It wasn't, not quite, but it would be. "You're on that list, you know."

"I am now," she agreed.

"No." He stood up and cautiously approached her, giving her time to tell him to stay away. "You've always been on it, Molly. From the moment I realized it existed." Sherlock held out his hand and Molly took it.

They stayed like that, holding hands and looking at each other with love in their eyes, aware that they'd managed to get past something that could have easily ripped them apart. Eventually the kettle whistled, and Sherlock stepped back so she could get up and make her coffee. "So it's not Moriarty, and you can't think of anyone else who would want to spirit Janine away. You said that Chapman had been escalating his abuse over the years, is it that much of a jump to kidnapping?"

"It's a possibility. It might be that this thing with Janine is a special case. She dumped him, ran to another man. Another Alpha male that Chapman would see as a threat. He talked about punishing her; when he couldn't manipulate her into coming back, he may have decided abduction was his only way of making her pay for causing him to lose face."

"Or she could just be jetlagged and fell asleep without checking in with you." She knew which of those options she'd prefer. The thought of Janine at the mercy of that creep made her shiver in disgust.

"Sure, that could be what happened." His expression made it more than clear that he didn't believe that for a second, but he was making an effort to keep from saying anything insulting.

Molly poured the steaming water into a mug and reached for the instant coffee. She grimaced at the jar and shoved it back in the cupboard, then dug around until she found a box of cocoa packets that had mysteriously appeared the day after she'd come to stay. "Any ideas?"

"She's not answering her phone. There was no one home at her flat or the cottage earlier. I sent someone out to both while John and I were in transit. One of Mycroft's lackey's has been keeping an eye on Chapman's home, but he hasn't brought her there, either."

"Hotel?"

"Too risky. Too many people around."

That made sense. She thought about asking another question as she sipped her cocoa, but he looked as if he'd already become lost in his thoughts. Molly decided her book would help keep her busy until Sherlock needed a sounding board again. She took her cocoa back into the sitting room and made herself comfortable. She noted that he'd settled into the kitchen chair she'd vacated earlier. Eventually he got up and joined her, curling into his chair, before picking up his violin. He plucked at the strings, making her wince and worry about what Mrs Hudson might think about the noise this late in the evening. After awhile Molly managed to tune out the individual sounds until they were equivalent to white noise, and they became almost soothing.

Her eyelids grew heavy and she nearly missed the hum of Sherlock's mobile phone vibrating on his desk. He continued to play with the violin as if he hadn't heard it.

"Your phone went off. I think you've got a text."

"Read it to me."

She looked from him to the now silent phone on his desk, well within his reach, and back. Molly rolled her eyes and got up. "It's locked. I don't have the passcode."

He rattled off several numbers so quickly she barely had a chance to catch them all. It took a moment to locate the proper icon, and then she was reading aloud, "It says 'I miss you. Need to see you tonight.' Simply signed 'J'. And there's a picture of-of someone's cleavage squashed into an uncomfortable looking nightie." 

Sherlock held out his hand with a frown. "Let me see." He glanced at the photo, then shoved the phone into his pocket. "That's definitely Janine. She's at her cottage. Or, more precisely, she was when the picture was taken. Obviously a setup, but to what end?"

He'd done it again. Identified a woman by 'not her face'. She knew he hadn't had sex with Janine or the Dominatrix but he clearly had a strong familiarity with their bodies if he could identify them with a single quick look. "How do you know?"

"That it's the cottage? The wainscoting in the background. Runs through the entire place. Janine hates it, keeps complaining she's going to rip it all out, as if I care one way or another about how she plans to redecorate. How do I know it's a setup? She is well aware that I have no interest in seeing her in lingerie. It does nothing for me. Never has." He got out of the chair and stood in front of her. "Or were you asking how I recognized _her_ from that photo?"

Molly wanted to die of embarrassment. She sounded like a jealous cow, and she'd felt a bit like one too. Just because she'd been confronted with proof that he'd dated another woman, fake or not. 

Sherlock pulled her out of the chair and tilted her chin up with two of his fingers. "I had a part to play as her attentive boyfriend, that necessitated a certain level of familiarity. She has a small birthmark at the base of her throat, you can see it clearly in the picture. Rest assured I've deleted anything else I may have made note of while we were 'dating'." He stepped closer until he was pressed against her. "You, on the other hand, have burned yourself into my memory. I couldn't delete you even when I desperately wanted to."

He leaned down and softly kissed her, the barest brush of his lips against hers. "We can discuss it more when I get back, if that's what you want. I want you to be absolutely sure of my feelings for you. No doubts."

Molly shook her head. "I don't have any." She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. "Not about that."

"I need to go." Sherlock leaned down to kiss her cheek, then pulled away. Almost immediately he had switched over to his consulting detective mode, rushing around the flat to gather up the things he wanted to take with him when he left. 

"Are you going to call Gavin? I mean Garret. Greg! Oh, screw it, are you going to call Lestrade?" Molly knew she was getting flustered; but the happier Sherlock looked, the more nervous she felt.

He shook his head and pulled on his Belstaff. "I've got a better chance of remaining undetected while I have a look around without him lumbering along behind me."

She bit her lip, uneasy at the thought of Sherlock walking a situation he had already identified as a setup without taking someone with him. "What about John?"

"That would be ideal, yes, but Bethany has been fussy the last few days and I fear Mary far more than I fear whatever elaborate plan Chapman has concocted to best me and convince Janine to come back to him." He finally stopped moving and stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips. "What am I forgetting?"

"Shoes." Molly pointed toward his bare toes.

"Right." Sherlock disappeared down the hall to his room and returned a few minutes later. He hesitated at the door for a moment, then hurried over to her one last time.

"I don't suppose you would . . . But no, that wouldn't work, would it?" He picked up her hand, the one that she'd used to break Chapman's nose, and ghosted his lips against her knuckles. "You'd be a distraction, but for all the wrong reasons, I think."

Even though she wanted to tell him not to leave, Molly held her tongue. She was always going to worry about him, but that didn't mean she would ask him to stay. "Try not to get hurt this time. I didn't pack my first aid kit," she joked, hoping he would recognize it as her way of asking him to be careful.

He grinned as he looped his scarf around his neck. "No worries. John made me get one of my own when he moved out. You look tired. Go ahead and go to bed, I'll wake you when I get home."

And then he was gone.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

By the time she returned to her book the cocoa had grown cold. Rather than reheat it in the microwave or make herself a new mug entirely, she decided to take Sherlock's advice and head to bed.

Molly doubted she'd actually be able to sleep (she was far too keyed up for that), but it might help her relax a bit while she waited for him to come home.

Water chased the unwanted cocoa down the drain, and she took the time to rinse the mug out before leaving it in the sink to be dealt with in the morning. Her eyes lost focus as she watched little drops of water leak from the closed tap. The slow, rhythmic sound of droplets tapping against porcelain stilled her mind and she could think clearly for the first time since Sherlock dropped his bombshell.

Did Chapman really think there was anything he could do to make Janine take him back at this point? Sherlock was right, it would have to be a very elaborate plan indeed to manage that. The more she thought about it, the more out of character it seemed for the odious bully. She'd only been around him twice and that was more than enough for her to see that he wasn't brilliantly cunning (or even particularly bright). He had defaulted to vulgarities, threats, and his fists rather quickly on both occasions. She didn't have that much experience with intelligent criminals--although quite a bit more than the average gal on the street, surely--but it was painfully obvious that he wasn't an elaborate-plan-making sort of man.

One last water droplet formed at the tap. It fell and Molly gasped as everything snapped into place. 

The uneasy feeling she'd had every time Sherlock talked about Chapman trying to abduct her came back tenfold. It had never made sense in her head. She'd almost had it all figured out before, when she and Sherlock were in Soter's taxi on the way home from dinner at the Chinese restaurant. Chapman hadn't come to her flat for _her_ , he'd come for . . .

_Sherlock._

She painfully gripped the edge of the sink until her nails turned white, and put the last pieces together.

Chapman had wanted Janine, but she turned to--How did Sherlock put it?--to another Alpha male. A smarter, stronger, better Alpha male. Sherlock wasn't just a threat to Chapman's relationship with Janine, he was a threat. Full stop.

And how would a manipulative man who thought with his dick and fists rather than his brain react to a threat? 

He'd eliminated it.

There was no way Chapman could afford to let his rival (and that must be how he saw Sherlock) continue to walk around, a constant reminder of how he had lost. How he was inferior.

Molly realized Janine was about to become collateral damage in whatever this thing was between Chapman and Sherlock. She wasn't the end game anymore. She was the bait, just like Chapman had tried to do with Molly.

Sherlock was going to walk right into the trap because he wanted to believe Chapman was smarter than he appeared. He wanted a challenge, craved it, needed to prove that he could outsmart yet another above-average criminal. Sherlock was clearly giving Chapman too much credit. He'd gone to the cottage hoping to encounter a rapier of a man, but he was going to run straight into a blunt club. 

There would be no clever trail of clues leading to a puzzle, with Janine and another boost to the consulting detective's already massive ego as a prize. Instead, there would be an angry man waiting to wage a physical battle, not one of the mind. As fit as he was, Sherlock was no match against a gunshot wound (as had been made perfectly clear already).

She told herself not to panic. Sherlock was extremely good at deductive reasoning. Surely he'd figure it out on his own.

_Unless he misses it. He always misses something._

"Shite. He's going to get himself killed. Again. For real this time."

Molly hurried back into the sitting room where she'd left her phone to charge. She had to call and warn him; and when he laughed at her for telling him something he'd already known, she would happily feel a little silly for overreacting.

The call went straight to his bloody voicemail.

She paced around the room, tapping her mobile against her chin as she tried to sort through the incredibly small number of options available to her. 

She could call Greg. He'd already made it clear that his hands were tied as far as official channels with the Yard were concerned, but she had no doubt that he'd come running to help if he thought Sherlock needed him. However, Sherlock was right; Greg wasn't part of the cloak and dagger crowd. There was every possibility that he'd go rushing in and things would go even further to hell.

Mycroft? Sherlock would never forgive her. 

More importantly, Molly had no clue how to contact him quickly. If she had the time to waste she could try calling the number she used when she needed a ride somewhere. There was no guarantee the nameless man on the other end of the line would be able to contact Mycroft directly; but she knew that he could contact Soter who, in turn, spoke to Anthea on occasion. What Molly wouldn't do for Anthea's mobile number at the moment. 

She cast a brief thought toward the surveillance people across the street that were supposed to be keeping an eye on 221B, but she couldn't remember if they worked for Sherlock or his brother. She had no clue which flat they were in or what they looked like. How much time would she lose trying to find them, and would they even know how to get in touch with Mycroft quickly enough to be of any use? 

John was the obvious answer. He was used to sneaking about with Sherlock, and he had a gun (that no one was supposed to know about and yet everyone did). It was late, so she'd probably end up waking him and Mary, but it was important. Surely Mary would understand.

Molly froze with her thumb hovering over the call button on her contact list. She bit her lower lip as she considered what she was about to do, then scrolled a little further down the list and hit the button.

It rang several times before someone picked up. "Hullo?" a drowsy feminine voice finally answered.

"Mary? Oh thank God."

"Molly?" Mary's voice became clearer, more lucid. "What is it?"

She could hear John in the background, asking if something was wrong. "I need your help. Sherlock's in trouble." 

There was the sound of the phone being passed over and then John started peppering her with questions, "What's he done? Is he hurt?"

"Probably not yet, but that's only because I doubt he's made it all the way out to Sussex." Molly started pacing again.

"What's he doing in Sussex?" John asked.

"Walking into a trap. But not the one he thinks he's walking into. A different one, that he's not prepared for."

For a long moment there was nothing but silence on the other end of the line, then John spoke again, "What?"

"I know, it's a little complicated and confusing, but trust me. He's either going to walk in on Janine and her exceptional cleavage or a rich thug who isn't nearly as smart as Sherlock wants to think he is." 

"What?" John repeated. He was beginning to sound like a cranky parrot, and it was really starting to get on Molly's nerves.

Molly snapped, "Could you put Mary back on the phone?" Really, if she'd wanted to talk to John, she would have phoned his mobile in the first place, not Mary's.

"All right, luv. Take a deep breath and tell me what's going on." Mary's tone was soothing and any other time Molly would probably have appreciated it, but now was not one of those times. She didn't want to be soothed, she wanted help.

"Janine's gone missing, and Sherlock thinks that arsehole who broke my toe with his ribs has her. He's gone to get her back, and I think he's about to make a bad mistake. Someone is going to get very, very hurt and I'm scared that it's going to be Sherlock." The more she talked about it, the more helpless Molly felt. 

John and Mary had an urgent conversation which Molly couldn't quite hear, then Mary returned to the phone. "John's getting dressed right now. Do you know where he needs to go, or should he come by Sherlock's place first?"

"No!" Molly exhaled loudly in an attempt to control her frustration. "I mean, I didn't call for John. Although, you can bring him along if you want. But I called for you. I need you to do whatever it is you do and help Sherlock. You need to go rescue him, so he can rescue Janine."

Silence again, only this time it felt charged with something that made the hair on the back of Molly's neck stand up. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know the specifics, but I know there's more to you than you let on. I recognized it the day you kept me company while Sherlock and John went out to the Barrett estate. There's something dangerous about you, and you hide it most of the time which tells me you don't want people to see it. But I've spent enough time around the type of people that Sherlock tends to surround himself with to know, well, you're not simply John's wife. I mean, obviously, you are, but . . . Whatever you did or do, I need that. Sherlock needs it. Please." She was practically begging and she didn't care.

Mary didn't say anything for a long enough period of time that Molly began to doubt herself. Was she wrong? Had she let herself get carried away by her concern for Sherlock? 

"Give me ten minutes to get someone to watch Bethany, and then we'll be on our way." 

Molly sagged in relief and leaned against the arm of Sherlock's chair. "Thank you. Mary? Do you think you should bring John's gun?"

"We'll be there in thirty minutes. Be ready." Mary's voice was colder, more direct than Molly could ever remember hearing it before. It should have scared her, but she found it oddly reassuring as she ended the call.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

The Watsons pulled up to the kerb thirty minutes later, almost to the second. Molly had been anxiously waiting for them on the pavement in front of 221B. John was driving, with Mary in the passenger seat, so Molly hurried into the back. She noted a small, dark duffel on the seat next to her, but didn't touch it.

"Where are we going?" John asked as he pulled back into the street. 

"Do you know where Janine's cottage is?" Molly hadn't been able to find the address on the internet or anywhere on Sherlock's desk.

Mary nodded. "I do." She leaned over to put it into the car's Sat Nav and realized John was looking at her strangely. "She sent us a Christmas card. I had to send one back, didn't I?"

John continued to stare at his wife for longer than Molly thought was strictly safe considering they were still in the middle of city traffic. "Does she know about . . ."

"Oh, no. No, I don't think so." Mary gave him a hesitant smile, then glanced at Molly in the backseat. Her smile faded. When she spoke again, it was more of a command than a suggestion. "All right. Tell me what's going on. Everything you know, everything you think you know. Everything."

Molly started with Sherlock asking her to let Janine stay and why, her own run-ins with the cretin, the emails and texts to Janine, and finished up with Sherlock leaving for Sussex Downs. She told them why she thought he was in trouble and waited to see if they thought she was being foolish.

Mary nodded several times as Molly talked, her expression becoming more and more shuttered with each word. "We'll need to see the cottage, figure out what Sherlock's walked into, before we can come up with a plan." She turned to her husband. "How much longer?"

"Uh, another forty-five minutes." 

Mary nodded again, although it appeared to Molly as if the other woman was distracted and hadn't really paid that much attention to John's answer. Molly settled back in the seat to wait. She didn't do well with waiting, not when she was anxious. She bit at her thumb nail and tried to come up with something to take her mind off her worry.

A couple of minutes passed in silence before Molly broke. "Military?"

"Hmm?" replied John without taking his eyes off the road.

She leaned forward as far as her seatbelt would allow and addressed Mary. "Where you military, like John?"

The couple shared a look, and then the other woman shook her head. "Not quite."

"Didn't really think so, but . . . well." Molly shrugged and picked at a worn spot on the knee of her jeans.

After another long patch of silence Mary turned to face the backseat again and asked, "Aren't you going to ask more questions?" 

"Do you want me to?" Molly had been trying to respect Mary's privacy. It was obvious that whatever was going on with Mary wasn't something she wanted to share with all and sundry. Since Molly was selfishly exploiting that to get what she wanted, she figured the least she could do was keep her curiosity contained.

Mary tilted her head and looked at her as if she'd never seen Molly before. "I . . . No?"

"Then I won't." That seemed straight forward enough. Molly worried her lower lip between her teeth and fidgeted in her seat. Five minutes passed, possibly six, before she sighed and leaned forward again. "Sorry, I can't. I've got another one. Just . . . Was I right? Will you be able to help Sherlock, if he is in trouble like I think he is? Did I do the right thing in calling you? Both of you?"

Mary and John shared another look, and Molly envied them with their ability to communicate with just a glance. 

She met John's eyes in the rearview mirror. "We can definitely try."

"Okay. Good." Molly nodded several times, mostly to reassure herself. "That's all I need, then."

"Really?" Mary continued to study her as if Molly were an oddity she'd never encountered before. "No more questions? No curiosity?"

A snort escaped Molly before she could stop it. "Trust me, I am full of curiosity. Practically vibrating with it. But since I met Sherlock I have seen so many things I'm not supposed to talk about. I've _done_ things I'm not allowed to talk about. Bodies disappear from my morgue without a murmur of concern from my bosses because _Someone_ gave an order. I've been hijacked to help Sherlock simply because he doesn't want to work with most of the other staff with lab access, and the things he does in there are probably not sanctioned by Barts. I've been introduced to the enigmatic Mycroft Holmes, and I've learned it's best if I don't ask too many questions around or about him. I've helped fake a man's death, and I still feel really bad about not being able to tell you about that, by the way."

John grunted in response. Molly decided to interpret that as a 'don't mention it'.

"Sherlock and John both trust and care for you, Mary, and that is . . . enough for me, right now. You have to understand that I long ago realized there are certain things I really do not Need to Know, and shouldn't even ask about. Especially if I want to be able to sleep at night."

Mary blinked several times, then settled back in her seat and made herself comfortable. "All right, I guess that's settled then."

"Yep." 

Molly caught John looking at her in the rearview again. He lasted less than a second before he blurted out, "Seriously, though?"

His wife smacked him in the arm; not hard enough to cause the vehicle to jerk, but enough to earn an indignant 'oi' in response. "She said she's good. Move on."

They sounded so much like an old, bickering married couple, it made her feel as if everything was normal for a few seconds. "If it would help you feel better, John, there are probably loads of things I've been cleared to know about that I couldn't tell you, even if you asked."

"That's . . . not as reassuring as you might think."

Molly shrugged. "I tried."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Scared did not begin to cover how Molly felt as she peered through the cottage window one more time. Terrified came close, but still fell short.

John had insisted on parking a good distance down the road from the small cottage to keep Chapman from hearing the car. It had taken several minutes to silently scurry across the garden, duffel bag in tow, and around the perimeter of the house until they found what they were looking for. John and Mary both agreed that rushing headlong into the cottage without assessing the situation first would be disastrous. 

In the end, they found the people they had been looking for gathered together in a bedroom. Chapman was plainly visible through the delicate lace curtains, holding court in the middle of the room as he trained a gun on Sherlock who was seated on a chair near the bed.

Janine was tied to that same bed with several colourful scarves and ribbons, barely covered in the delicate lace nightie Molly recognized from the photo on Sherlock's phone. She strained against her bonds and spewed venomous insults at Chapman. "You piece of shite! Untie me or so help me God I will-"

The gun menacingly swung toward the bed. "You'll what, pet?"

She surged upward as far as the restraints would let her. "I'll cut off your d-"

"Enough!" Sherlock's drew everyone's attention, including Chapman's. "Shut up, woman." The consulting detective shook his head, seemingly attempting to commiserate with their captor. "Was she like that with you, too? Always yap yap yapping, like a small annoying dog."

"Oh, smart man," Mary whispered. "He's trying to keep the ex's attention focused on him and off Janine. If that guy is as unstable as you think, he might shoot her if she irritates him enough."

"But Sherlock's irritating, doesn't that increase the risk of him getting shot?" Molly worried out loud.

Mary ignored the question and indicated that they needed to move away from the window so they could talk. "Are you sure you want to do this? John can do it instead, can't you?" She may have been addressing her husband, but Mary's gaze never wavered from Molly.

"Yep. It might be better if I did, actually," John offered. 

Molly knew he was trying to do the right thing and keep her out of harm's way, but that wasn't the plan Mary had originally suggested. "You said he would be more likely to react the way you needed him to if I was the distraction, because he already knew me."

"That's what I said, and I stand by it." The hard expression Mary had been wearing since they left the car softened briefly. "But that does not mean you need to be the one to do it, Molly. If you can't be one hundred percent certain that you can go through with this, you need to stay here and let John take your place. Do you understand?" 

Could she do it? 

Another burst of angry expletives cut off suddenly. Whatever was going on in that bedroom wasn't going to get any better while she stood around outside dithering. Molly nodded sharply. "Let's go."

Mary studied her for a moment longer, then turned and headed around the front of the cottage. She kneeled in front of the door, duffle bag on the ground beside her. John aimed a small torch at the lock so she could see it better. It seemed like the longest ten seconds of Molly's life, waiting for the nearly silent click of the lock disengaging. Mary stood and tossed her lock picking tools into the open duffle before pulling out a handgun. They waited as Mary loaded and double checked her weapon, then she carefully led the way through the mostly dark cottage.

The three of them hesitated in the shadows outside the partially open bedroom door. Molly could hear Sherlock talking inside. "This is getting dull, Chapman. Could you speed things up and get to the point of all of this . . . melodrama."

"Don't rush me, you impatient pissant," Chapman snarled. There was silence for a moment, then Chapman tsked several times. "I know what you're trying to do, Holmes, and it won't work. I've got very specific plans for you two, and I won't let you antagonize me into ruining them."

Molly wiped her damp palms against her jeans and took several calming breaths as she waited for Mary's signal.

"It's nothing fancy, not like what you're used to, I imagine. But it should do. A bit of a classic, actually. A sexy rendezvous gone wrong. You two met up for a little kinky fun and things got out of hand. Holmes here is going to strangle you, pet, and then hang himself in remorse."

"No, I don't think I will," Sherlock replied as if he were casually turning down the offer of coffee and dessert after a heavy meal. 

"That's where the gun comes in, I'm afraid. It won't be as elegant, but it will do in a pinch. New angle. You are a lover spurned by your former girlfriend. You've come to convince her to take you back; and when that doesn't work, you shoot her and then yourself. The world will think you're a jealous pervert who murdered your sometimes lover and couldn't handle the guilt." Chapman sounded so pleased with himself, it was disgusting. "As the current boyfriend I will, of course, be appropriately devastated when I hear the news." 

Mary held up several fingers and slowly began to count down from three.

"No one will believe that," Sherlock scoffed. "Since I reappeared the media has been bending over backward to kiss my arse. Haven't you heard? People love me. I've got fan bloody clubs."

"It is amazing how the corpse of a pretty girl can turn public opinion. Murder/suicide scandals are very popular right now. Your name should be smeared across the papers by tomorrow."

Mary's fingers ticked down to one.

Molly walked into the bedroom with her head held high, looking far more confident than she felt. "It would serve the arseholes right." 

Chapman's head whipped around, his mouth open in a way that would have made her laugh if he didn't have a gun pointed at Sherlock's head. "Where the fuck did you come from?"

She ignored him and glanced at Sherlock. For a split-second he appeared to be utterly panic stricken at the sight of her, then his expression morphed into something closer to cool disdain. Molly continued to complain to Chapman. "I've seen the texts between the two of them. For a self-described genius, he's an idiot. He assumed I wouldn't find out that he's been seeing--no, fucking--Janine the entire time he's had her hidden away. He told me they were split up. Kept saying he needed to leave for a case, but I knew--I knew--he was coming here to see his bit of stuff on the side."

Her gaze flicked toward Janine on the bed, and she realized Chapman had shoved the end of another scarf into her mouth. No wonder the other woman had stopped yelling.

The gun wavered slightly, but Chapman kept it aimed at Sherlock. Molly needed to get that gun pointed somewhere else or Mary wouldn't be able to pull off her part of the plan. She took a step back, widening the distance between herself and the others, trying to continue to draw Chapman's attention toward her and away from Sherlock. 

"I suppose I got that wrong, didn't I? I'm the bit of stuff, since I was a back-up to your preferred shag," she spit the words at Sherlock, then continued to speak to Chapman. "Tosser thought he was pulling the wool over my eyes, telling me he had to visit a friend tonight." Molly casually took another few steps back so that she could lean against Janine's dresser. "Don't let me stop you. They both deserve it. Can I watch you do it?"

Chapman grinned. The gun lowered a bit as he turned his head to watch her. "I knew you were feisty, but this . . . You're a blood thirsty little thing, aren't you?"

"I've got a temper." Molly flicked her gaze toward his broken nose and then she smiled maliciously. "But you already knew that. How is the nose, by the way?"

Chapman's grin immediately disappeared and he bared his teeth at her. The gun swung in her direction, which was exactly what she'd been hoping for. As Molly dropped to the floor (desperately hoping that she was fast enough, and that Chapman had a horrible aim in case she wasn't), she heard Sherlock bellow, "No!"

Her palms hit the hardwood flooring first, the impact made her teeth snap together. A deafening bang made her ears ring. She could see Sherlock launching himself off the chair toward Chapman, even as the other man screamed in a combination of rage and pain. The gun fell from Chapman's useless hand as a red stain blossomed high on the sleeve of his expensive shirt. Molly suspected the humerus might have been hit by the bullet--if not fractured--judging from the way Chapman's scream turned into a high pitched squeal when Sherlock knocked him to the ground.

It took her several valuable seconds to scramble off the floor and launch herself at the two men. Chapman continued to try to put up a good fight even with a bullet hole in his arm, probably fuelled by adrenaline and anger. Unfortunately for Chapman, Sherlock had just as much rage, the advantage of leverage, and a lack of a gunshot wound on his side. Molly tried to pull Sherlock off the other man, but it was as if she wasn't even there for all the good it did.

Sherlock threw another punch, hitting Chapman in squarely in the jaw. The injured man's head banged against the floor and he went limp.

Suddenly there was another pair of hands and arms trying to yank Sherlock away. John managed to do what she couldn't; he pulled Sherlock free and wrapped him up in a bear hug to keep him from continuing to pummel the unconscious man. 

Molly dropped to her knees at Chapman's side. A quick check confirmed there was an exit wound but no exposed bone. She awkwardly applied pressure to staunch the blood flow. "John! We need to hurry!"

Sherlock continued to strain against his friend's hold. John tried to calm him, "She's fine, and he's out. Stand down, man. Damn it, Molly, tell him you're not hurt!" 

"I'm fine, not a scratch, I swear," Molly replied as reassuringly as she could, which wasn't as much as she had hoped. "Please, Sherlock."

He stilled when she said his name. Sherlock nodded once, sharply, and John tentatively released him. 

While Molly continued to tend to Chapman, John pulled a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket. He picked up the dropped gun and gestured at Chapman. "Help me lift him." 

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"Really? You're going to argue with me right now?"

Sherlock grimaced, but he bent down to help John lift the unconscious man. 

"Hold him up," John ordered as he wrapped Chapman's fingers around the gun. He pointed it toward the wall above the chair Sherlock had been sitting in. "Cover your ears, Molly." Once she did, he squeezed off two shots, then passed the gun to Sherlock. "Don't lose that."

Chapman groaned without fully waking. 

John pulled a second gun out of his pocket and shoved it into Chapman's other hand, making sure to get the arseholes finger prints all over it. He offered the gun to Sherlock. "Be helpful and go outside to summon the police a few times, would you?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then took the gun with a nod. "Of course, gunshot residue. Very thorough." He dumped Chapman's dead weight on John (who staggered and then none too gently lowered Janine's ex to the ground) before disappearing through the bedroom door.

Molly hurried to the bed and pulled the gag out of Janine's mouth. "I'm so sorry it took so long. Just give me a second and I'll get you untied, I promise."

Janine rotated and flexed her newly freed wrist. She jerked her head toward Chapman, who was still out cold. "Is he going to live?" 

John nodded as he ripped the sleeve off of the other man's shirt to get a better look at the damage. "Unfortunately, he will. Molly, I'm going to need a tourniquet."

"On it." Molly tossed several of the scarves at him. 

Two gunshots split the air outside and Molly jumped. She looked to John, wondering if she should be worried, and he merely shook his head. Molly's hands trembled as she finished untying Janine. Now that the worst was over--the part that could have gone pear-shaped and so easily turned deadly--her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. She felt shaky and sick to her stomach, and knew there was a small chance that she was going to throw up.

Sherlock reappeared. Once he verified that Chapman was still incapacitated, Sherlock put both guns on top of the dresser. "Molly?"

"Still fine, promise." His expression softened just a bit when she spoke.

"The local constabulary should be on the way." Sherlock crossed the room, stepping over Chapman's body, and offered his hand to help Janine off the bed. "Are you all right?"

"I will be." She wrapped her arms around her torso and looked around the room. "Going to have to replace everything in here. Fix the holes in the wall."

Molly suspected the other woman was in shock. Janine was far too calm considering everything that had happened. Molly understood the feeling.

"Would you feel better if you put on a dressing gown or something? Maybe splashed some water on your face?" Sherlock asked. 

Janine tore her gaze away from Chapman and focused on Sherlock. Her eyes cleared and she drew a deep breath. "Yes. Yes, I would." She skirted around the man on the floor and hurried through the bedroom door.

Sherlock put his arm around Molly's waist and pulled her close. She dropped her forehead against his chest and snaked her arms under his coat, needing his body heat to warm her. Over the top of her head she could hear him speaking to John. "Are you done?"

Molly turned slightly so that she could see the doctor as he finished double checking the field dressing he'd given Chapman's wound. He stood and pulled his gloves off, tucking them into his pockets. "Yeah. He's stable, although that's going to hurt a hell of a lot once he comes to."

"Good." Sherlock's arms tightened around her for a moment. She could feel his chest vibrate under her cheek as he continued to talk to John. "You should probably leave. Your ride is waiting."

John looked a little nervous as he stood up. "About that-"

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Sherlock replied, "Haven't seen you all day."

She nodded in agreement. "I took a cab. I heard my friend was back in the country and wanted to come by for a visit. Imagine my horror when I walked in on that arse holding Sherlock and Janine at gunpoint. Everything was a bit of a blur after that."

"What about Janine?" John asked, turning a worried eye toward the bedroom door.

"I haven't seen you since I left for Japan." She stepped the rest of the way into the room, and finished wrapping herself in a warm flannel bathrobe. "I'm not sure why you don't want the cops to know you were here, but I'm not really going to question it at this point, am I?"

He smiled, clearly grateful that Sherlock and Janine were on board so easily. "Right. Someone give me a call if Sherlock needs to make bail, then?" 

Both women nodded and Sherlock called out to John before he could make it out the door. "Later on you and I are going to talk about why you thought it was a good idea to bring Molly here." 

"Other way around, mate. She brought me." John nodded to Molly and Janine, then disappeared down the hall.

Sherlock lifted Molly's chin so he could see her properly. "Then I suppose that talk will be between you and I, won't it?"

Molly swallowed hard and hugged him tighter. "I'm not going to apologize."

"So," Janine interrupted Sherlock before he could start to lecture Molly. "Someone want to let me know what I'm supposed to tell the police?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

The sky had begun to soften with predawn light by the time Molly was allowed to leave the police station.

As Sherlock had predicted, several members of the local Sussex police force had answered his 'summons'. Molly, Janine, and Sherlock had been rather forcibly asked to give their statements at the station. Chapman had been sent to emergency with a police escort to have his arm and the lump on his head looked at. Molly spent the entire ride to the station silently thanking Mary's foresight for not only coaching her on what to say to manipulate Chapman, but also passing along tips for acting appropriately upset and flustered when she was questioned by the police. 

Not that she had to fake being upset. She was shaking the entire time an officer took her statement. Molly had to stop and collect herself twice, or risk breaking into tears as the fear she'd managed to tamp down during the confrontation with Chapman threatened to finally break free. 

She was ready to drop--emotionally and physically exhausted--when they finally finished asking her questions and told her she was free to leave. She stopped dead at the sight of Janine (who had, thankfully, been allowed to change into jeans and a jumper before leaving her cottage) and Anthea waiting in the small lobby.

"What are you doing here?" Molly couldn't help blurting out as soon as she got close enough to Anthea.

"Mr Holmes sent a text to his brother saying you were going to need a ride back home from a police station in Sussex." 

"Does that mean he's ready to leave?" Molly looked around but didn't see his familiar head of curls anywhere.

Anthea shook her head. "No. He's still inside, and probably will be for a bit longer. There's a lot of questions that have to be answered when you've shot a man. Even more when they don't die." She shrugged.

Molly couldn't tell if Anthea was joking or if she was completely earnest. Janine laughed, so Molly offered a hesitant chuckle of her own.

"Don't worry. I've spoken to the lead detective, and from what I've heard I don't think Mr Holmes will be in any insurmountable trouble." Janine looked almost as relieved as Molly felt at Anthea's words. "It's fairly clear that the odious tosspot assaulted Miss Hawkins, held Mr Holmes hostage at gun point, and tried to shoot Molly. Add to that possession of two illegal firearms, and Mr Chapman's chances of getting away on this one are very slim."

"Are you sure? Francis is a rich man." Janine had a valid point. Chapman had managed to worm his way out of being arrested before.

"He's got money, but I doubt that will do him much good this time. I don't imaging Sherlock Holmes will stop until he's seen Mr Chapman sentenced and behind bars," Anthea reassured them. "You've both had a really long night, go get some rest. Soter is waiting with a car outside. He's been instructed to take you both home. That includes London, Miss Hawkins, if you'd rather not stay in Sussex Downs." 

Janine sighed in relief and immediately headed for the door. "Oh thank God. Do you think he'd be willing to stop by the cottage long enough that I can pack a bag?"

Molly started to follow her, then realized Anthea hadn't moved to join them. "You're not coming with us? How will you get back?"

"Mycroft is on his way. He wishes to speak with his brother personally. I'll be riding back with them."

Molly's eyes widened when the other woman said his given name. " _Mycroft_?"

Anthea's lips tilted upward in a shy, sweet smile.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

Her plan had been to pack up her things and wait for Sherlock to come back to Baker Street before she called a taxi.

A real one, not the one driven by Soter. She was really going to miss that man. He had promised to meet her for coffee in a few weeks so he could give her advice on plants for a window box in the spring. Then he had walked her to the door of 221B for the last time.

Unfortunately, by the time she'd gathered up the surprisingly large number of her things that had ended up strewn around the flat, Sherlock was still not home. The thought of leaving without seeing him made her physically ache, and Molly couldn't bear to consider it for more than a moment. She set her packed suitcase and several carrier bags next to John's chair, and laid down on the sofa to take a short nap while she waited for Sherlock.

Molly had no idea what time it was when she woke up. The room was brighter (Gently floating dust motes were visible in the sunlight from the windows.) so it must have been early afternoon. She sat up and stretched, wincing at the soft pops and clicks along her spine. When she began to rotate her neck to work out the last of the kinks from her nap, she saw him.

Leaning one shoulder against the open doorframe, his arms crossed defensively across his chest, was Sherlock. He was still wearing his Belstaff, and his hair was even more ruffled and mussed than usual. His face was a blank mask. She wondered how long he'd been standing there, watching her sleep. 

"You're leaving." It wasn't quite an accusation, but it was a far cry from the casual observation his expression was meant to convey. 

"Well, yeah. Toby misses me, I'm sure. And Chapman is in police custody so you don't need to babysit me anymore." She was confused. Surely he wasn't surprised that she was going back to her own flat?

Sherlock dropped his arms and took a short step toward her. She saw his hands clench at his sides before he tucked them behind his back and out of sight. "You were just going to pack up and leave without saying goodbye?"

"No!" Molly hopped off the couch and debated with whether or no she should approach him. Her body swayed in his direction, drawn to him, even though her feet remained in place. "No, I would never-"

"Then what are you doing?" Again, his voice betrayed him, each syllable a harsh staccato beat. 

"I'm not leaving _you_ , I'm just going home." He visibly flinched when she spoke. For the first time Molly wondered if he had wanted her to stay. They'd never actually discussed what would happen after the mess with Chapman had been dealt with. She'd always just assumed that she'd go back to her place and they'd continue with this new stage in their relationship. 

She wasn't sure what else to call it. It wasn't really dating, was it? Sherlock _dated_ Janine. This was something different. Something more.

Love.

Molly approached him cautiously, as if he were a wild animal that might bolt at the slightest provocation. Once she was close enough, she reached up to sink her fingers into his beautiful hair. She fully expected him to petulantly draw away from her touch; instead, he tilted his head so that he could lean into her hand. His eyes briefly fluttered shut.

She'd never seen him look so fragile, so vulnerable. Molly cupped his jaw with her other hand and brushed her thumb over his prominent cheekbone. "I love you."

"Then why are you leaving?"

His pale eyes opened and looked down at her with so much warmth and need it made her want to promise him the world if she could, but she also didn't want to ruin everything between them by moving too fast. "Because we've only been together such a short time."

Sherlock shook head. "It seems like it's been forever. You've been a part of me for years." 

Molly thought her heart would burst with love for the man before her. "Come to my place tonight. I'll cook dinner. Give us a chance to get used to being a normal couple--well, as normal as we'll ever be--before we rush into anything too-too . . ."

"You still think I'm going to change my mind." Sherlock took a step back, disappointment and sadness drawing his lips into a pout. Her hands fell from his face to his rest against chest.

"I think that you are everything I've wanted for so very long, and part of me is convinced that this is too good to be true." Molly needed him to understand. "We've never had a conventional relationship, and I don't expect us to now, but I need some time to convince myself that all of this is reality, not a dream. I don't want to push too far, too soon. I want you to be absolutely sure this is what you want. That this is what we both want. I need to know that you'll still want to be with me when we aren't involved in an exciting case, when things are boring and dull. I don't want you to feel trapped, like you have to find somewhere to hide because I'm here all the time and you can't think." She bit her lip, wondering if she'd just jinxed them somehow.

"Like Janine, you mean." 

Molly shrugged. She knew the circumstances were totally different, but Sherlock was Sherlock and he would always have his idiosyncrasies to deal with. She wanted to ease into things to make sure they were going to be able to find common ground that worked for both of them. Staying at Baker Street-- _living_ at Baker Street--was a giant leap forward, and she honestly didn't think they were ready for it. Not yet.

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue. She knew the exact moment when he accepted that she was right. "Dinner?" he asked.

"Please?"

"Can I stay the night?" 

Dear Lord, the things that man's voice could do to her.

"That can probably be arranged." Molly raised up on her toes so she could press her lips against his. Sherlock wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tight against his chest to help support her as the kiss deepened.

"You can leave on one condition," he murmured against her lips. 

"Tell me what it is, and I'll consider it," she offered as he slowly lowered her back to the floor.

He nudged her further into the sitting room and pushed the flat door shut behind him. "I'm going to need something to tide me over until I see you tonight." Sherlock pulled off his Belstaff and let it drop to the floor.

"What?" Even to her own ears, Molly knew she sounded breathless and eager.

Sherlock took her hand and began to lead her through the kitchen toward his bedroom. "You."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

A few weeks later found Molly spending a relaxing afternoon at Baker Street. She'd had a lovely lie-in with Toby curled against her back that morning. Then lunch with Meena, who still called Sherlock 'the arsehole' (although there was a tiny hint of affectionate tolerance in it now that she could see how happy Molly was).

Sherlock had invited her over to spend the afternoon experimenting with whatever random things he pulled out of the refrigerator. Mrs Hudson had put her foot down that the fridge needed to be completely sanitized (or replaced, she was willing to negotiate) before she would do any more errands for him, and that meant it needed to be emptied. Sherlock and Molly agreed it would be a huge waste to toss everything without getting a chance to play with it a bit first.

They'd moved on from the really interesting stuff to trying to figure out what the unrecognizable mass of congealed slop stored in a margarine tub might have been in its former life. Molly's guess was either a stew or Shepherd's Pie; but Sherlock was leaning toward pancreas marinated in bile (although he couldn't remember if or when he'd brought something like that home). They didn't have access to the more sophisticated equipment at Barts, so they were making a game of improvising ways to deduce the answer with only items available in the flat.

It was rather fun actually.

Molly's pen eventually ran dry and Sherlock refused to let her steal his. He slid it out of her reach. "This one is mine. Find your own." 

"You just want me to waste time searching so you can figure it out first."

"Perhaps." His grin was mischievous as he placed another slide into his microscope.

She rolled her eyes and went in search of a new pen. The desk seemed the obvious place to start. There were several writing utensils on the desktop but most of them were either long dried out pens or broken pencils. "Why are you saving these?"

"Bin them if you'd like." He barely spared her a glance.

The long shelf on top of the desk proved more productive as she immediately found a working pen next to a stack of books. Molly almost walked away before she noticed the familiar bundle of dark material that had been carefully folded and hidden behind the books.

Somehow she'd managed to forget the mystery of the Reappearing Ruined Scarf in all the Chapman drama.

"Is this the scarf you borrowed from Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope just long enough to glance at the small mass of silk in her hands. "Yep." He popped the last letter in that particular way of his that was equal parts annoying and childishly adorable to her.

"I thought Mrs Hudson said you'd told her it was ruined?" Molly ran the soft fabric through her fingers, watching the glittering threads catch the light with her movements. The scarf was intact, not a single snag marred the material.

"I did."

"You lied to her?"

Sherlock sighed and slid his chair away from the kitchen table, turning to give her his full attention. "I would have assumed that was obvious."

"It was on your desk." She continued to play with the scarf, enjoying the feeling of the silk against her hands.

"Was it?" he asked as if they were discussing whether or not it would rain.

"Why?"

He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "It seemed a convenient place to put it at the time."

"That's not-I meant why did you tell her it was ruined?" Her voice turned husky as she voiced the question she'd truly wanted an answer to. "Why did you keep it?"

His face remained impassive as he stared at her for a long moment before he answered her. "Because it smelled like you."

Molly looked at the scarf as if she'd never seen it before. "What?"

"Your perfume. You had a bottle in your purse. Most likely in case you felt the need to refresh it during your blind date with the boring imbecile. You used it before we left for the bar."

Sherlock grimaced and shook his head as she lifted the scarf to her nose and sniffed. "It's gone now. There's no scent left."

He was wrong. There may not have been any trace of her perfume, but there was a masculine aroma embedded in the silken threads. She closed her eyes and rubbed the material against her cheek, inhaling the scent that she would always recognize as Sherlock's. 

Her eyes slowly opened to find him watching her.

It was clear that he hadn't just left the scarf behind the books; he'd held it, touched it, managed to get his scent all over it. Molly felt her entire body go warm as she wondered what, exactly, he'd been doing with the silk scarf since it had been 'ruined'.

All sorts of deliciously filthy ideas ran through her mind. "It smells like you."

His face went suspiciously blank. "Does it?"

"Why would that be, I wonder?" She leaned her hip against the desk and continued to play with the fabric. "What have you been doing with it, to make it hold your scent?"

His lips curled into what was quite possibly the sexiest smirk Molly had ever seen. "You tell me." His voice dropped low and smooth, and her body reacted as if he'd physically touched her.

"It was on your desk." She mused, thinking aloud.

"You've already established that."

She'd heard him mention watching porn on John's laptop at least once. Perhaps he had . . . ? She looked at the desktop, then back to Sherlock. "Your laptop is on the desk."

"An astute observation." His face gave nothing away, and the rest of his body remained completely still. No obvious tell to let her know she was on the right track.

Molly frowned. That wasn't it. He'd watched porn, admittedly, but not for entertainment. She bit the inside of her cheek as she puzzled through it. She'd found it on the desk just now, but it had been tucked between the cushions of his chair the day she'd brought him the cooler of hands from Barts. Her gaze had focused on the glass panels next to the kitchen doorway while she'd thought, and she smiled as everything clicked. "It's not the laptop, though. It's the view."

 _And there was the tell._ Sherlock sat up straighter. His body tensed. She could see his biceps flex under his indecently tight dress shirt.

She moved to stand behind his chair. "From the chair at the desk, you have a straight view of that spot." She pointed to the place where she'd been standing that horrible Christmas party when Sherlock had brutally deduced her and then apologized. "Practically the same view from here, but this chair is much more comfortable, I would imagine."

"That is true." Sherlock nodded. "It is a comfortable chair."

"So what is it that you wanted to look at while you held something that smelled like my perfume?" He didn't answer, but she hadn't really expected him to. He seemed to be enjoying watching her work through it on her own. If he'd been bored, he would have already insisted it wasn't important and gone back to his experiment. 

Molly patted the top of his chair. "Could you do me a favour? Sit here. Help me visualize the scene of the crime, so to speak."

He huffed, but did as she asked.

She leaned down so that her breath stirred the fine hairs around his ear. She loosely draped the scarf around his neck and smoothed it down his shoulders. "I don't see anything in particular that would hold your interest, perhaps it's not something there now?" Molly turned her head and brushed her lips against his earlobe. "A memory?"

He shivered at the feather-light contact. Molly smiled, feeling proud of herself and more than a little sexy. She whispered, "I remember standing right about there when I came to your Christmas party. Do you know how fast my heart started to race when I saw you?"

"I can make an educated guess based off the average resting heart rate of a woman your age and your lifestyle . . ." He groaned. "And that was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?"

Molly sighed and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. "Yes." She stood up and ran her fingers through the curls on the back of his head. "I was trying to set a mood, Sherlock."

"Ah." He leaned his head back to look up at her and held out a hand in invitation. "If you come here, I'll tell you what I used to do with the scarf," he offered in apology. "That might bring the mood back."

She took his hand and let him draw her around the chair into his lap. Sherlock silently indicated that he wanted her to look at the spot they'd been discussing. "You came up the stairs that night, bags of presents in your hands and that ridiculous bow in your hair, and stopped right there to take your coat off. I don't think I'd ever seen your hair down like that before, surely I would have remembered." 

Molly shook her head. "Not very practical in the morgue."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. She turned so that she could see his face. His eyes had gone slightly unfocussed as he got lost in the memory. 

"It looked so soft. So touchable. I had to look away. Centre myself. But I could hear John and Geoff practically salivating over you, as if they had a right. One quick glance seared your image in my mind. I stared, unseeing, at John's blog and knew that I would never be able to forget how you looked in that dress. You kept drawing my focus, distracting me, and I couldn't have that. And then there was the present. The one meant for the man you clearly cared about, the man who wasn't me, and I couldn't stop it . . . Couldn't stop the flood of hurtful words."

His hand found hers on her lap and he covered it. "I didn't recognize it at the time, but it was jealousy that made me do it. Pure and simple. I thought it was just pique at being forced to host that annoying party. I'd already taken out my frustration with everyone else in the room and you were just the next target on the list. That's how I justified it." His thumb began to draw small circles on the back of her wrist. 

"You were so hurt, I had to do something to make it better; hence the apology, the kiss on the cheek. You were wearing that perfume. I've noticed it so many times since then, how could I not? For so long I refused to attach any significant importance to the way it always reminded me of that moment, the look on your face as I leaned in to kiss your cheek that first time."

He blinked and looked at her, gazed drawn down to her softly parted lips. "I've wished so many times that things had gone differently. That I'd kept my mouth shut. That I'd told you how lovely you were. That I had kissed you properly, on your pretty red lips. I have imagined all of those scenarios and more since I let myself begin to think of you that way." 

Sherlock pulled the silk scarf from around his neck and brushed the end against her cheek. "I really had meant to return this. It was with the other things I took down to Mrs Hudson that morning; but I pocketed it at the last moment and told her it had been ruined. I was still trying to figure out why I kept it, when you came out in my shirt and robe. I'd never been so hard so fast in my life. I couldn't say anything without running the risk of sounding like a stammering fool, so I just sat here until I could think coherently again. Later, when I left your cleaned clothes in the bathroom while you were in the shower . . . I didn't peek, I swear it, but my God I wanted to. I'm surprised you didn't hear me panting like a randy teenager, clenching my fists to keep from reaching for that damn shower curtain. I had to leave, obviously."

She let him continue to ghost the material across her skin, along her jaw and down the length of her throat. "I thought you'd had a case?" 

"Solved it in ten minutes, spent the next four hours insisting Gerome give me something challenging until he threatened to have me arrested."

Molly caught her lower lip between her teeth in an effort to keep from laughing. 

He dropped the scarf onto her lap and slid his hand around the back of her neck. He pulled her close enough that he could press his forehead against hers, his breath hot against her lips. "You were gone when I came home. All I could think about was you in my shower, you in my bed, you standing right over there in that tight black dress, in my robe. I didn't even make it to the bedroom, Molly." 

Sherlock groaned and nipped at her lip, urging her to open her mouth for him. His tongue found hers as soon as she gave him what he wanted.

"Right here," he groaned against her lips in between hot, open mouthed kisses. "I didn't even bother undressing, just unzipped and had my hand around my cock in under a minute."

She whimpered and turned as much as she could in his lap so that they were pressed chest to chest.

"I'd shoved the scarf in the chair cushions when I heard you get up that morning. I didn't mean to grab it, but I was suddenly burying my nose in it. With my eyes closed, I could imagine you were here. Standing right there in that black dress with your hungry eyes, watching me get off."

"Oh yes," Molly moaned. She started to tug at his shirt buttons, popping them open as quickly as she could. "Is that all you wanted me to do? Just watch you?" 

"No! I wanted-" He broke off as she kissed him hard, all teeth and tongue and heat. Sherlock tried to follow her when she withdrew, but Molly ducked her head so she could finish dealing with his buttons. "Touch me. I need . . ."

She pulled his shirt free of his trousers and ran her palms over his newly exposed skin. "Tell me what you need, what else did you think about when you touched yourself?" 

"You turn around and pull up your dress so I can see your knickers. I love your arse."

Her hands stopped moving as she looked at him, eyes wide and surprised. "You like my bum?"

Sherlock dropped both hands down to fill them with her arse cheeks. "No, I love it. Thank God you wear those hideous lab coats at Barts, else I'd never get anything done for staring at your arse."

"How did you even know what my bum looked like? You rarely saw me outside Barts." She gasped when his hands slipped under her blouse and into the waistband of her trousers so that his fingers could graze the top of her buttocks.

He smirked. "I'm very observant."

Molly pinched one of his nipples in retaliation. He hissed and his hips jerked upwards, pressing his arousal against her thigh. "Do I keep my knickers on?"

"Sometimes." Her waistband kept his fingers from getting any lower, and he groaned in frustration. "Sometimes you take them off and come sit in my lap."

"Like this?" she questioned just before she lowered her head and took the nipple she'd pinched between her lips and sucked.

Sherlock moaned, long and low. He released her bum and started to blindly pluck at the buttons of her blouse. "Facing away. You lean forward and let me fuck you, hard and fast. I can look down and see my cock disappear inside you, touch your beautiful back. I never last long when I imagine that. Please, Molly, let's go to bed." 

He was practically begging, desperate for her. She was just as desperate for him. Molly knew she was wet, her nipples ached, and she wasn't at all sure she'd be able to wait until they made to his room and got undressed.

She slid off his lap and finished unbuttoning her shirt. He started to stand and Molly held out a hand to stop him. "Stay. Right there."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Molly?"

She shrugged off her blouse and quickly reached behind to unhook her bra. "Take off your trousers. Don't get up, just slide them off. Pants too." She knew she was being a little bossy, but the last few weeks seemed to indicate that Sherlock rather enjoyed it when she got a bit assertive in the bedroom.

"Here?" His eyes closed and he began to breath heavily through his nose.

"Don't you want to?" Molly wondered if she'd read the moment wrong. 

He groaned and gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Yes, I want . . . Just give me a minute. I'm already close just thinking about . . . Fuck."

Watching him fight for control only managed to make her even more aroused. She finished undressing quickly, then nudged him with her foot. "I'm waiting, Sherlock."

His eyes snapped open. He moaned at the sight of her standing in front of him, feet planted wide apart, completely bare to his gaze. Sherlock's hands dropped to his belt and he wrenched it open. He toed off his shoes, then braced his feet on the floor and lifted his bum so he could slide his trousers and boxers down his legs.

The scarf had fallen to the floor when she stood up. Molly bent to retrieve it, revelling in the way he moaned her name as her small breasts moved. By the time she was done he was only wearing his unbuttoned shirt. She thought about asking him to take it off, but he looked so deliciously debauched-- slouched low in the chair, shirt open and chest bare, cheeks flushed, hair a mess of curls, his erection straining toward her. She wanted him to stay like that forever.

She leaned down and touched him, gliding her hands from his neck down his chest and stomach to his erection. Sherlock bit his lip and grabbed the chair arms again. Molly loosely wrapped the scarf around his cock and began to stroke him. His back arched and his bum actually came up off the chair as he jerked toward her. "Fuck!"

"Have you ever done this before?"

"Yes," he panted, those pale eyes locked on her hands and what they were doing to him. "Not often, didn't want to, oh God, to ruin it." His hips began to rock into her touch. 

Molly considered letting him come like this, but she wanted him inside her, filling her. She pressed her lips to his, drawing his lower lip into her mouth and releasing it with a loud pop. Sherlock cupped the back of her neck to keep her close enough to kiss again and again. His other hand palmed her breast, playing with the nipple.

"Closest condom?" she whispered against his jaw. "Bedroom or . . . ?"

Sherlock gasped, "Wallet. Trousers on the floor." He wrapped his other hand around hers, stilling her movements. "I need you. Now."

She released him with a pleased murmur and bent down again to find his wallet. He removed the scarf and tossed it aside. Molly passed the condom to him and waited for him to put it on, pressing her legs tight together in an effort to ease the ache between her thighs.

He reached for her and she shook her head. "You said you wanted me like this." She turned and sat on his lap, opening her legs so they were on either side of his; scooting closer until her back was against his chest, and his penis was snug between them.

"I love you," Sherlock breathed against the back of her neck before lightly scrapping his teeth against her shoulder.

Her laughter was soft and breathless and full of joy. "Try telling me again when you're not desperate to come." She shifted her hips, lifting herself just enough to give him room to do what they both wanted.

"I will, promise." 

She felt him reach between their bodies to position himself; then she slowly eased down, taking him in. They both groaned as he filled her. Once she was certain what they were doing was feasible and not some porn fantasy impossibility, she coyly looked over her shoulder. "Now?"

Sherlock pulled his lower lip between his teeth again and nodded. She felt his thighs tighten beneath her as she leaned forward to brace her hands on his knees; exposing her back and arse to his gaze, just as he'd described. She lifted off his lap, barely able to touch the floor with the pads of her feet, then down one more time. Sherlock's hands fell to her waist, offering support as they began to come together faster. Harder.

The sounds of sex filled the sitting room; the sharp slap of flesh against flesh, Molly's delighted gasps as Sherlock pulled her onto him with more and more force, his low growl when she would briefly slip a hand down to caress his balls.

Sherlock spread his knees for leverage. Her feet no longer touched the floor, and she was unable to close her legs. They were completely exposed if anyone were to walk in at that moment, and Molly didn't care.

One of his hands caressed her arse for a moment, then slid around to find her clit. The other wrapped around her body and pulled her back against his chest. She reached up behind her head to sink her hands into his hair as he continued to work her nub with his fingers. 

She moaned his name. "Close." The tension was building inside, like an ever tightening rubber band just waiting to snap.

"Thank God," Sherlock gasped against her ear. He bit her shoulder and Molly came. He whined deep in his throat as he continued to thrust through her orgasm; then his rhythm stuttered and he joined her. "Molly!"

It took a few moments to catch her breath, and she spent that time limply draped across his chest. "Oh, Sherlock, I love you."

She could feel, more than hear, his breathless laughter. "Try telling me when I haven't just made you come."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen - Epilogue**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ— 

"Molly."

"Hmm?" She knew Sherlock was trying to get her attention; but she was almost finished jotting down her current line of thought. She wasn't trying to ignore him but if she didn't get it all down on paper right then she would never remember it. Next week she had her first meeting with the doctor she was going to collaborate with on a new paper about acute tubular necrosis and she wanted to be ready. 

He waited for her to finish (Impatiently, true, but he did wait.) before speaking again. "I need a favour."

The way he said that made her inordinately happy. No flattery, no buttering up, simply a request for assistance. Just as she'd been trying to get him to do for ages. "All right. What do you need?"

Sherlock sat on the coffee table in front of her and looked as if he were about to say something, then hesitated. If she didn't know any better, Molly would have thought he looked nervous. "A plus one."

Instinct nearly had her asking if Janine was busy, then it hit her--really hit her, for the first time--that he didn't need a pretend girlfriend anymore. He had a real one.

Her.

She smiled and pushed her notebook and research materials to the other end of his sofa so she could give him her full attention. "Another case? What's the cover story this time?"

His eyes shifted to the side briefly, then returned to focus on her face. "Not a case. A-a dinner." His leg shifted just enough that his knee bumped against hers. "Just a few people, mostly family. I expect it will be terribly dull once the big announcement is made."

That confused her, there was no reason for him to be out of sorts at the thought of dinner with his family. She'd briefly met his parents just a few weeks before as they passed each other on the way into and out of Baker Street respectively, and Molly thought they were delightful. Especially Sherlock's father. Then there was Mycroft who was, well, Mycroft; but even he had become less annoying over the last few months, especially when he was accompanied more and more by Anthea. 

_Not Anthea. Andrea._

Remembering to address the other woman by her real name was taking some time to get used to. Especially when Molly had to continue to call her Anthea on the rare occasions when she ran into Mycroft's Gal Friday on official business.

The last bit of what he'd said finally registered. "Big announcement?" Molly felt a little lightheaded. She wasn't sure if it was excitement or something worse. Surely she had heard him wrong because it sounded as if Sherlock was talking about them. Was hinting that they announce something at dinner his way of testing the waters to see if she was open to the idea of moving in together without actually risking rejection by asking? "Sherlock? What are you doing?"

"Me?" He looked as confused as she felt. "I'm not doing-No. No! Not my announcement." It had been ages since she'd seen him look that panicked. "It's way too early for that. Not that I'm not considering the idea, because it would be rather nice, eventually. But not this weekend! We've barely even . . . It's only been a few months since-"

Molly interrupted him, "You've been thinking about eventually?" She couldn't help but smile. Sometimes he was so adorably awkward, it made her want to ruffle his hair and kiss the stuffing out of him. 

Sherlock frowned and pulled his leg away from hers. "Haven't you?"

"Perhaps." His frown grew even more pronounced, and Molly rolled her eyes. "Yes. Of course I have. But you are absolutely correct. Moving in together is a big step and not something to rush into."

The frown melted away, thankfully; but she wasn't sure she trusted the calculating look that took its place. She knew for certain she shouldn't trust it once he started speaking again. "That wasn't exactly what I was thinking about, but now that you've brought it up, I accept. Let's let Mycroft and Andrea have their moment before we say anything to the family, though. It would be the polite thing to do, don't you think?"

Utterly flabbergasted, Molly could barely sputter, "That's not-I didn't!"

"Didn't you? Hmm." Sherlock tilted his head to the side as if he were reviewing the last few minutes in his mind, but she was familiar enough with his tells to know he was faking it. "Oh well, cat's out of the bag now, I suppose. Which reminds me, I'm thinking we should begin by introducing that cat of yours to Mrs Hudson. Wouldn't do to give her a heart attack the first time he unexpectedly pops out of the shadows to wind about her ankles, would it?"

Molly crossed her arms and shook her head, although the twitching of her lips probably gave away that she wasn't as irritated as she was pretending to be. "I never agreed to move in here."

"You'd prefer to stay in your flat?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "But this one has so much more character, and Mrs Hudson barely makes a fuss when I destroy something. Think of your security deposit."

"That is not what I meant, and you know it," she huffed. 

"Are you saying no?"

"No. I mean, no, I'm not saying no. That is, I'm not saying I won't . . . Ugh." Molly threw her hands up in defeat and slouched back against the sofa.

"Good. That's settled. Baker Street it is." Sherlock smirked and looked extremely pleased with himself. "Let's give it another month, no more than two--just to let Mummy and Father get used to the idea that their eldest is getting married--and then we'll move you in here. After that, we can start thinking about what I originally had in mind. How does that sound?"

"Workable." It was difficult to be annoyed with him when she considered how happy the thought of living together made her. Not to mention the future promise of what he'd originally been thinking off. The thought of an engagement--and someday marriage--made it impossible to keep up the illusion of irritation she'd been trying to maintain.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else, probably something smug that would make her want to smack him, when his phone chimed. He leaned across the coffee table and stretched out a long arm until the tips of his fingers managed to snag his mobile phone off the desk. "Text from Lestrade. He's got a case. I already know John's busy, which is a pity because this sounds promising. Could be an eight."

He looked up and gave her an eager, boyish grin. "Would you like to solve a crime today?"


End file.
